


lovely, dark and deep

by Mononoke



Category: The Order: 1886
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Fae & Fairies, Fairy Tale Elements, Identity Porn, M/M, Names, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Werewolves, Work In Progress, liminal spaces
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:56:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28996335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mononoke/pseuds/Mononoke
Summary: In the wake of their poorest harvest yet, Grayson makes an offering of himself to the guardian of the forest in the hopes of sparing the lives of his friends and family.But the appetite of the Great Wolf is legendary ...
Relationships: Alastair D'Argyll/Grayson, Isabeau D'Argyll & Grayson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 11





	lovely, dark and deep

**Author's Note:**

> Another idea from during [the monster fic's](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13746192?view_full_work=true) production! It changed forms a little when I couldn't get the original concept to work, but it's still the sort of ridiculous AU that I love to write. I don't exactly know who this is for, besides me lol, but I hope y'all can find something in it to enjoy!
> 
> This fic contains **minor instances of animal death** , as characters are depicted hunting for food. There are only a small number of instances of this, and the acts aren't described in great detail. But if that's the sort of thing that makes you uncomfortable, consider yourself warned.
> 
> I only speak two languages: English and bad English, so anything else I've run through Google Translate. Apologies in advance if you're a native speaker - I did the best I could manage. If you're on browser you can hover over the italicised font to read the translation, otherwise they'll also be in the end chapter notes.
> 
> Title and chapter names come from Robert Frost's poem, ["Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/42891/stopping-by-woods-on-a-snowy-evening).

Grayson looks out over the stretch of their fields and fights off a sigh.

Even from a distance he can tell it’s to be another poor harvest. Some crops wither where they stand, dried out husks, while others are curled in on themselves, so little left that the wind can carry away what remains. He’d think it a sickness but for the way it strikes at random, spotting through their fields without rhyme or reason. There’s no source that they can find to lay the blame upon, no pests, no foul play, no fault in the earth itself; whatever it is, it never fully lays waste to their hard work.

They’ve struggled in the past – gone hungry, been left with little to trade. But this marks their second poor harvest in as many years, and such occurrences have only become more frequent as time has gone on.

Now Grayson does sigh, casting one last glance over the field before he turns back towards the village. His eyes catch on the great line of trees in the distance as he does so, the forest that marks the edges of their land. Grayson frowns at it, but doesn’t linger.

Sebastien is waiting outside his home when Grayson returns.

“You’ve seen it, then?”

Grayson gives him a look that says more than he could in words.

Sebastien shakes his head. “We’ll be lucky to salvage even half at this rate.”

“What’s to be done?” Grayson asks.

“I’ll speak to Augustus. Surely he can be made to see reason.”

“You don’t mean – leave the village?”

“If that is what it comes to,” Sebastien says, grim determination on his face. “There are more than the two of us to consider. More than Augustus likes to remember, I sometimes think.”

Grayson scrubs a hand through his hair, buries the noise of frustration he wants to make.

Theirs is only a small village, from what he’s learned over the years, and certainly nothing compared to the nearest towns they’ve traded with. But it's home to a handful of families, some with children no taller than his knee, as well as the few loners such as himself and Sebastien. It’s not an insignificant amount of people to consider, to say nothing of the logistics of such a move. Would they even find another place they could all safely call their own? What would they have to leave behind, should it come to that?

Grayson feels his insides twist at the thought. This is his _home_ , the only place he’s ever really known, the place he’s spent the vast majority of his life. He doesn’t want to leave. Even just the idea of doing so …

It’s as he’s standing there wondering these things that he spots the Frenchman coming up the hill towards them. He gives a jaunty wave as he approaches, a guileless smile on his face.

He dips his head to Grayson when there’s only a few paces left between them. “ _Bonjour, mon ami à l'air sévère_.”

“Ah. Hello,” Grayson says awkwardly. He dips his own head in reply.

The Frenchman’s smile grows.

The only name they know him by is Lafayette, though Grayson’s not sure he’s heard anyone but Sebastien call him that. It probably doesn’t help that he can’t seem to speak a word of English. He’s been with them a few seasons now, having trailed along after Sebastien the last time he’d made the trip out to trade. They’d struck up a conversation, according to him, the Frenchman enamoured of Sebastien being one of the few in town able to speak his language. And so he’d followed him back to the village, where he has remained – somewhat underfoot – since.

Augustus had taken one look at him and cursed Sebastien’s name under his breath.

Grayson doesn’t know quite what to make of him, personally. The Frenchman has never done anything to cause him trouble; he’s polite enough to address Grayson whenever he sees him, irrespective of the fact he doesn’t understand a word he says. Still, he can’t help but feel that Lafayette is _laughing_ at him, somehow.

“ _Ne te moque pas de lui_ ,” Sebastien says then, and even in another language the warning in his tone is plain.

The Frenchman holds up both hands, his smile fading. “ _Je ne voulais pas offenser_.”

Grayson looks between the two of them, uncomfortably conspicuous. He should know better than to presume. It’s incredibly vain, too, believing that whatever’s being said is about him. But Sebastien is rarely stern without reason, and between Lafayette’s bright eyes and his own lack of understanding, it isn’t difficult to assume the worst.

“ _Il est temps pour nos leçons, monsieur, n'est-ce pas_?” the Frenchman says to Sebastien.

“ _Aller à l'intérieur. Je te rejoins sous peu_.”

Grayson watches as Lafayette nods. The other man turns to him then, giving another smile before he disappears inside Sebastien’s home.

He wonders what they talk about, sometimes. By Sebastien’s own admission Lafayette had accompanied him back to the village out of a desire to learn English. Grayson knows how much time they spend together, however, has seen them quietly speaking in the Frenchman’s tongue. It can’t all of it be teaching.

He can’t fault Sebastien for finding another confidant. He won’t pretend he’s not disappointed the role is no longer his, though.

“One of these days you’ll have to tell me how you came to be so knowledgeable.”

“In this particular instance my knowledge may just be a curse,” Sebastien says gruffly, though his eyes are crinkled around the edges. “Until later, Grayson.”

Grayson lifts one hand in goodbye and leaves the man to his business. Sebastien has already vanished inside when he glances back a few moments later. Removed of his temporary distraction, his mind immediately starts circling back to the problem at hand, and all that comes with it. He buries those thoughts as quickly and deeply as he can.

It’s not yet afternoon, and there is always work to be done in this village. He can’t think if he’s too tired, can he?

* * *

Dusk finds him at the edges of the forest, as it usually does. Orange rays of light filter through the trees in places, the thick canopy blocking much of the sky from sight. He has a short while left before the sun sets, before being even this close becomes dangerous.

He’s not so far away – or so far _in_ – that he can’t look over his shoulder and see the outskirts of the village. It won’t take him long to return when he needs to. Such is one of the first lessons he learned when he started hunting on his own, and he’s not forgotten it.

He bends down to check his most recent snare. Broken.

“Bastard.”

It’s the second one today, and the latest in a long line of failed traps over the years. Not for the first time does he find himself wondering if someone’s tampering with them. But it would serve no purpose for a member of the village to act in such a way, and no one else lives close enough, or passes through so regularly, to even know of their existence. And the woods themselves are home to none but birds and beasts.

Grayson glares down at the ruined trap. The years have taught him well, however; it’s for reasons like this that he always remembers to bring his bow.

He’s far from the most skilled at such forms of hunting; he prefers his traps, and his knife. But he knows just enough to be dangerous, and in this case that’s all he needs.

Grayson nocks an arrow and steps carefully through the underbrush.

It’s quiet, nothing but the sound of the wind and the occasional titter of birds. It makes every footfall into something thunderous, and he strains his ears for a hint of anything else. His own heartbeat is all that reaches him, steady but uncomfortably loud. The air is thick, even so relatively close in; like a weight on his chest, making every breath he draws difficult.

How much of it is real, and how much is in his own mind, he’s not sure he can say.

Noise, to his right. Grayson immediately goes still. Then, drawing his bowstring back, he waits.

There’s nothing for a few long moments. Then, finally, movement from one of the nearby bushes, a few seconds of rustling before a furry head pokes out from the undergrowth.

Grayson shoots.

The last twitches of life are already leaving the rabbit as he reaches it, pinned to the ground by the arrow through its neck. It’s the neatest shot he thinks he’s ever made. He feels a brief burst of pride as he collects the rabbit, setting it inside the bag he’d brought with him. Something makes him pause then, a shiver creeping all the way up his spine, and Grayson holds still, listening.

There’s nothing – no warning growl, nor the sound of vegetation crushed underfoot. Just the wind and the birds, and when he looks around himself he finds nothing out of the ordinary.

Grayson brushes the shivers off, but holds his bow a little tighter all the same.

His next rabbit doesn’t come so easily, its ears twitching back a moment before he looses the arrow; he misses by the slimmest margin. Grayson huffs, and heads off in a different direction. It’s a relief when he lands his next shot, and he barely hesitates before setting out for another.

He’s storing his third rabbit inside his bag when he realises exactly how dark it’s gotten. That same shiver crawls up his back again, but this time Grayson doesn’t pause, doesn’t take a moment to glance around. Instead he turns, pushing briskly through the underbrush as he heads for the edges of the forest. He can just make it out in the distance, the dying, reddish rays of the sun calling him forward. There’s a voice in his head, urging him to _run, it’s not so far, quickly now_ , and it grows louder with every beat of his racing heart, until it’s almost deafening –

But he ignores it, just as he’s done every time before now, keeps his pace steady and his eyes on the tree line, and doesn’t look behind him. Only when he’s out of the forest does he turn around and peer back into the trees.

There’s nothing there. There’s never been _anything_ there. But it doesn’t stop him from looking, and it doesn’t stop the sensation of being watched from crawling up his spine again as he turns towards the village.

* * *

The meeting, when it is finally, finally called, comes as a shock to none of them.

It’s been more than a few days since the state of their crops was first discovered. News had spread throughout almost the entire village even before night had fallen that first day, and with nothing to do but wait the atmosphere had turned unbearably tense. Grayson’s glad his own tasks tend to lead him away from most of the community; his own worry over the situation needs no encouragement.

He doesn’t know whether Sebastien is responsible for this gathering, or if Augustus came to it on his own. Judging by how long it’s taken – and the quietly fuming expression on Sebastien’s face – he thinks he has his answer.

Most of the village is already clustered within the hall when Grayson eases his way inside. Sebastien stands near to the centre of the room, a little ways from Augustus and the large table that cuts through the space. Lafayette is at his side, the two of them speaking quietly to one another. Grayson wonders how much Sebastien will end up translating over the course of the meeting.

Isabeau is there, too. He sees her face amongst the crowd as he steps through, their eyes meeting briefly. He dips his head to her, and she arches an eyebrow at him in response, the barest hint of a smile curling her lips.

The thought of crossing the room to stand by her is tempting, but with her father so close it’s a desire he’s forced to refuse.

A few long minutes pass as they wait for the last of those still missing, murmured conversations and disconcerted mutters filling the air. Grayson sidles his way around until he’s standing by Sebastien’s elbow, flanking him opposite Lafayette. When the hall is finally full Augustus draws himself up, glances around at all of them.

“As you are all no doubt aware, our fields have once again been struck by the sickness that poisoned our previous harvest. Myself and several of the men have taken great care these past few days to determine the exact state we find ourselves in.” Augustus pauses, his weathered face giving nothing away. “Things are worse than we anticipated. Less than half of this year’s crops are salvageable.”

A distressed cry ripples through the hall. Family members hold to one another tightly, while others stare on in pure shock. Grayson takes the news like a lead weight settling inside him and he forces himself to breathe, the tightness in his chest nothing more than his mind, like the voice in his ear from the forest. He’s a man of four and thirty, for heaven’s sake. He shouldn’t have these weaknesses, let alone allow them to be seen.

Sebastien exhales heavily, folds his arms over his chest. “Well, then. When do we make preparations to leave?”

“We are not abandoning this village.”

“Augustus. You cannot seriously –”

“We will _not_ be abandoning this village, Sebastien. Not so long as I and the other members of this community draw breath.”

Sebastien’s frustration is plain to see, simmering barely under the surface. “There will be no community left to draw breath should they all _starve_.”

“Your objections are noted, and undoubtedly there are those among our gathering who would support you.” Augustus casts a glance around the room, eyes briefly alighting on Grayson. “They would be equally as foolish.”

“ _Cet homme est extrêmement obstiné_ ,” he hears Lafayette say, voice low. Sebastien hushes him gently.

“What’s to be our course of action, then?” Isabeau asks.

Augustus looks to her, a frown crossing his face before he says, “We will make do, as we’ve always done. Our harvest is only a few days from now. In that time we will prepare. Sebastien, you and the men you’ve trained to hunt will continue to do so. Whatever extra game you can secure will go towards our reserves. For all others – we will assess what we may be able to trade, so that we may rely less on our own harvest.”

An uncertain murmuring fills the room, and Grayson watches his fellow villagers look around at one another. Their concern is obvious, as is their confusion. He understands their position all too well, for all he can’t trust himself to show it. Isabeau’s face is similarly guarded, and she doesn’t take her eyes from her father even for a moment.

It’s Sebastien whose feelings are once again clear to all.

“If there is some corruption in the earth,” he grits out, “or some parasite at the source of this, all the trading in the world won’t save next year’s harvest. Augustus, for god’s sake –”

“There is no _corruption_ , no parasite. What tests us now is something more insidious, and only our faith will see us outlast it.”

Grayson frowns at that.

“… An insidious threat?” Someone beats him to asking, voice coming out of the crowd.

“With time I’m certain we shall uncover it, as well as how to stand against it. But _until_ that time we must remain united, and defend our home with all fervour,” Augustus says, not a hint of weakness in his voice.

Sebastien shakes his head. “Old friend, please, this is verging on madness. For the sake of the village, we must consider leaving.”

“There is no earthly reason for our crops to be failing, Sebastien! And if you cannot see that then all hope is lost on you.”

“What about the Wolf?” Grayson asks, an uncomfortable silence filling the room as Augustus turns cold eyes on him. “Could we –”

“We do not speak of such groundless superstitions,” he says, voice hard and unforgiving. And as though there’s nothing more to be said on the matter, he looks to one of the other men gathered. “Inventory our reserves once more; make certain we know what we can spare for trade, or should it come to rationing …”

Grayson barely hears a word of what comes next, bristling as he is.

Groundless? When Augustus himself has just given such a flimsy excuse for why they’re to remain?

“How can they be groundless when the sole law you ask us to abide by is based upon our not hunting in his territory?”

“Grayson,” Sebastien warns, quietly, reaching out a hand to take his arm –

Grayson shrugs him off, stands tall and doesn’t falter under the scrutiny of those present.

Augustus glares at him. “There is nothing in those woods that could be of use to us. You would do well to remember that, _as well_ as your place.”

Grayson grits his teeth, a flood of embarrassment heating his face. He stands there silently fuming for the remainder of the meeting. Not that it goes on much longer; with none but Sebastien willing to voice their disagreement, and Grayson so summarily dismissed, there’s little in the way of opposition for Augustus, and so his planning go unchallenged. Grayson feels the eyes of most of them on him when it’s finally over, and comes time to filter out of the hall. Isabeau is the worst by far, for all she likely doesn’t realise it. She lays her hand against his arm, a glancing touch that’s meant to comfort but only leaves him more on edge.

“ _C'était une vaillante tentative, monsieur_ ,” Lafayette says quietly to him before slipping out the door.

Sebastien is the last one at his side. He knows him well enough to say nothing; he doesn’t reach for him, or try to offer comfort in any way. They simply stand together, silent, each nursing their own grievances, their wounded pride.

His anger hasn’t diminished any, still bubbles away there under the surface. But it eases him somewhat, simply sharing the space with him.

“Come on, son,” Sebastien says finally, and nods his head to the door.

Grayson blows out a long breath, feels it rattle all the way out of him. Then he steps towards the exit, Sebastien following close behind.

* * *

He’d first met Sebastien as a boy of nearly ten, in a town he can no longer remember the name of.

With no father to speak of, his mother had left him with a first name and nothing else. His memories of her were fleeting things, fading until only glimpses remained and it started to feel like he’d always been alone. He grew up hungry, and thin, skulking through streets and picking at scraps. As the years passed he’d taught his hands to be quick, to save his energy for the escape; he knew the fastest paths through the streets, and all the best places to hide.

Only by some small miracle was he never parted with one of his fingers, or more.

He’d learned quickly that the best targets, when he could get them, were those from out of town. Occasionally suspicious, but more often oblivious, there was less reason to worry about stealing from those he’d never see again. He could make a few coins stretch for days, or pawn a lifted trinket for something more worthwhile; half the time they’d left without ever realising they were short of something precious.

Sebastien Malory, as he’d come to realise, was not one such target.

He’d watched the man as subtly as he could, knew which coat pocket held his bag of coin. So it had been all too easy to bump into him, murmuring apologies as he dipped his hand into the stranger’s pocket, pushing himself away before the motion could be felt. The man had barely looked at him and Grayson hadn’t questioned it, took his spoils and disappeared. Heart still pounding with the thrill of success, he’d settled down in some corner or another, poured out the contents of the bag to count his winnings –

What tipped into his hand wasn’t coin, but what looked like coloured glass, vivid hues of green and blue and white, sharp edges rounded down. His heart had pounded then for a completely separate reason, a ringing in his ears as he stared down at his hand. They were pretty, sure, could maybe fetch something from a trade – but they weren’t _coins_.

“I don’t suppose you’d mind returning those?”

Grayson’s head snapped up.

The man was standing there, an unreadable look on his face.

“I imagine this is what you were expecting?”

From another pocket entirely he’d removed another bag, near identical to the one in Grayson’s hand. He gave it a shake, and even from where he sat Grayson could hear the jangle of coins.

How …?

The man titled his head at him. “Why don’t we make a deal. You return those to me, and I’ll buy you a meal.”

“Would rather the coin,” Grayson had said, eyeing the man warily.

But rather than fly into a rage like he’d half expected, the man instead chuckled.

“I suppose that’s fair enough,” he’d replied, and flicked a coin his way.

Grayson had very nearly dropped his handful trying to snatch it out of the air.

It hadn’t been some con; this was real, something he could use. Carefully, he’d tipped the strange bits of glass back into the bag, then tossed it over.

The man caught it easily. He’d stood there for a moment, something considering to the way he looked at Grayson. Then he’d dipped his head, and turned away.

Grayson had hardly moved for what seemed like hours, convinced that at any minute someone would be coming around a corner looking to make him hurt. But no such thing happened, and eventually he’d slunk back through the streets, coin clutched tightly in his hand. Night had fallen before he’d felt even remotely safe to use it, and it was as he was passing the inn that he spotted the man again, sitting on the deck.

There was a bowl of food in his hand, and another on the table beside him; Grayson could see the steam still rising from its surface. He’d caught sight of Grayson then, and tilted his head towards the table.

Grayson stood there, torn, before slowly making his way over.

“Forgive the presumption,” the man had said. “I would think young men also prefer to eat more than once a day, when they can.”

Grayson just sat, staring at the bowl, turning the coin over restlessly in his hands.

“Now, normally I’m quite certain, but in this case I’m not so sure – it rather looks like it might bite back, don’t you think? Best that we make certain.”

He made a show of peering into his bowl, digging out a mouthful and then taking a bite. After a few moments of careful chewing, he nodded.

“Happily, I can report it safe to consume,” he’d said, some humour sparkling in his eyes.

Grayson had frowned at him. Did this man think him some child, so easily entertained?

“Go on, eat. I won’t even ask for that coin back.”

He eyed the food, and the man, one final time before he began to eat.

“You’ve been on your own for some time, I take it.”

Grayson said nothing.

“What’s your name, lad?”

“Why’s it matter to you?”

The man’s eyebrows had shot up, a brief slip before he’d caught himself. “A fair question. Though, if I’m guessing right, you won’t believe whatever answer I offer you.”

Grayson had shrugged, and shovelled in another mouthful.

“My name is Sebastien. I hail from a small village a ways from here.”

He knew enough not to offer out his hand expecting Grayson to shake; that much was a point in his favour, at least. Grayson filed the name away, a curiosity if nothing else. He pretended not to notice how the man studied him, the long moment of quiet stretching out with nothing but the sound of him eating to fill it.

“You see that cart?” The man had said then, pointing to the edges of the town, and Grayson had paused, glanced back to see the cart in question. “I’ll be departing with it at first light. If there is nothing to hold you here, you’re more than welcome to join me.”

Grayson had stared, bewildered by the offer. The man – Sebastien – said nothing else, stood, and disappeared inside, taking his empty bowl with him.

He’d sat there for a while, alone, pondering the offer, before slipping off to find somewhere to curl up for the night.

But the thought hadn’t left him, even as he’d known the dangers such an offer could contain. And when morning arrived he found himself at the edge of town, lingering just in sight as the cart was made ready to leave. It hadn’t taken long for Sebastien to notice him. There’d been a smile on his face, something soft and small, when he’d beckoned him over.

Grayson had watched as the town, the only place he’d ever known, disappeared from sight. He hadn’t felt much of anything in that moment.

“We’ll be travelling for a few hours yet,” Sebastien had said after a short while. “I would appreciate knowing your name before we reach the village, should you feel like sharing it.”

He’d said nothing at first, watched the landscape roll and turn before his eyes. Sebastien spoke occasionally, stories that Grayson had forgotten almost as soon as he’d finished telling them, and before long the sun was already halfway across the sky. What had started as a small cluster of trees off to their right soon transformed into a great forest, an impenetrable wall of nature. It was always there, just at the edges of his vision, and it cast an ominous feeling over him he couldn’t quite explain.

“Grayson,” he’d said eventually.

“Hm?”

“My name. It’s Grayson.”

Sebastien had smiled at that, but made no comment.

It wasn’t much longer after that that they’d reached the edges of the village. Many of those they passed called greetings to Sebastien, which he returned with a wave; the few that noticed Grayson eyed him curiously.

Inside the village proper, Sebastien had set about the business of storing away the cart and goods they’d brought back with them, and as Grayson waited he felt the weight of someone watching him. Across the way there stood a stranger, a man of Sebastien’s years, or perhaps older. His face was weathered with age, deep frown lines creasing his forehead, and he’d folded his arms over his chest, heavy coat pulled closed tightly around himself.

The man he’d come to know as Augustus d’Argyll had said nothing to him that day. The way he’d looked at him, however, would stick with Grayson for years to come.

Sebastien had paid the man no attention, instead taking Grayson on a tour of the village. He showed him their homes, plain but sturdily built; and their hall, where a small girl with reddish-brown hair had looked at him with inquisitive eyes. He showed him their fields, and their livestock, and where they’d sometimes sit together around a fire if the night was clear. It was so quiet, compared to town, so still. It made him as uneasy as it did curious.

It was only later that Sebastien had spoken to him about the forest.

“They say those woods are enchanted,” he’d told him one day, voice pitched low, conspiratorial. “Legend has it that they’re watched over by a wolf as tall as our buildings; a creature of endless appetite that protects the birds and beasts within. That there lies an altar deep inside the trees, where one brave enough can make an offering to him, and receive his blessing – or his wrath. And so long as we don’t venture too deep into his territory, he lets us live in peace.”

“… Who says?” Grayson had asked, frowning.

“The elders of this village. Those that were here before us, and are now gone.”

“You fill these children’s heads with nonsense, Sebastien,” Augustus had snapped from nearby. “The last thing we need is another generation chasing fairy stories.”

Sebastien had held up one hand in surrender. The moment that Augustus was no longer looking at them, however, he’d caught Grayson’s eye and winked.

“He prefers stories of the chivalric variety,” Sebastien had said, once Augustus was out of earshot. “You’ll know the names of more knights than you’ll ever need, soon enough.”

He’d stayed because there was nowhere else for him to go. That’s what he’d told himself at first, anyway. Eventually he could at least admit – within the safety of his own mind – that he liked being able to sleep securely at night. He liked being trailed around by Isabeau, and finding that his hands had some use beyond dipping into the pockets of others. He liked the exhaustion that came after a long day’s good work, and knowing he had a place in the world.

“Why did you ask me to come with you?” he’d asked, when the curiosity finally became too much.

“Perhaps I saw something of myself in you,” Sebastien had replied, a glint in his eyes. “Or perhaps I was simply amused that after all these years someone finally tried stealing from me.”

It was Sebastien who had told him, when he was old enough to fully understand, how years before Isabeau had been born – maybe even before Grayson’s time – Augustus had had a son. How, when the boy had barely come of age, he’d disappeared into the forest, never to be seen again.

“Was it the Wolf?” Grayson had asked.

“I truly couldn’t say. We lost three men in the course of our search, and found not the slightest hint of him.”

Grayson had frowned then, and looked out towards the edge of the woods. “What was his name?”

“… Alastair.”

He’d tried, in that moment, to imagine Augustus as a younger man – what he must have been like, and how such a loss must have nearly crippled him. No doubt it was what’d made him into the person they all knew now. He’d thought of Alastair then, too, a picture in his mind little more than a silhouette; a boy, vanishing among the trees.

What a sad fate, and for one so young.

“You mustn’t speak of him,” Sebastien had said, interrupting his thoughts. “Not to Isabeau, and certainly not to Augustus.”

“She doesn’t know?”

“She does. From what I understand, the idea itself is deeply upsetting to her.”

And so he’d carried the thought of Alastair d’Argyll around with him from that day on, a spectre the entire village knew the name of, almost as well as the Great Wolf’s. He never spoke of him, and never heard any of the community say his name either. The few moments of curiosity he’d felt, when he looked at Isabeau and wondered _what do you know about him_ , he’d quickly buried. And for a long, long while, every trip he made to the edge of the woods came with Alastair attached, pondering how he might’ve disappeared or the thought of stumbling over his bones.

It was in those moments he almost wished he’d never been told.

* * *

He’s grown into the man he is now because of Sebastien, learned to hunt and tend the field at his side. What little of the world he knows beyond their village is because of him; the few letters he understands, too, are thanks to Sebastien. He owes more to this man and his random act of kindness than he’ll ever be able to repay. And yet the thoughts that stick most frequently in Grayson’s mind aren’t the successes he’s had, or the joys he’s found through this second chance he’s been offered.

No, it’s the way Augustus had first looked upon him all those years ago, and how little that look has changed over time. It’s how even with all else speaking to the contrary, he still finds doubt in his mind that he belongs.

* * *

Isabeau is waiting for him when he goes to make his afternoon rounds. He pauses at the sight of her, and she raises an eyebrow sharply at him for it. He knows her well enough to not be intimidated; not when he can see the way her mouth curls up slightly at one corner, and the brightness of her eyes.

“I could have made a circuit of the village twice over with how long it took you to get here,” she calls to him as he approaches.

“No doubt we’d all be safer for it.”

“I’m glad to see we have an understanding.”

She smiles more freely at him as he comes to stand beside her. Her shoes are caked in mud, and her hair is pinned in braids at the back of her head; there’s a knife strapped at her waist, and she’s the loveliest thing he’s seen. She tilts her head towards their path, encouraging him along. They make it only a few steps before he hesitates.

“Isi,” he says, voice a gentle warning, “your father –”

“Can say nothing I haven’t heard before. There’s no one left to scandalise. Now come on.”

She doesn’t take his arm, but she stands close enough to occasionally brush against him, and it’s almost as bad. Grayson doesn’t sigh, though it’s a near thing. As many years as they’ve spent together, he knows all too well when she has him beat.

Together they pass through the village, following along the trail that will take them to the edges of their land.

Patrols have been part of the men’s duties for as long as he’s been a member of the village. He himself has performed countless circuits over the years. The path is so well known to him he could walk it in his sleep – through the village and down past their fields, along the initial boundary of the woods and back up again. They’ve been lucky, in the past, to be spared the threat of marauders and roaming animals; for all their utility such patrols have felt overzealous at worst, and a waste of time at best.

With the results of the meeting still ringing in their ears, it should come as no surprise that Augustus would have them perform their duties more often. Whether such an increase will protect them against an _insidious enemy_ remains to be seen.

Grayson frowns at the bitterness of his own thoughts, and turns his focus once more to the task at hand.

“I had hoped we wouldn’t face another year like the one that came before,” Isabeau says eventually, when they’ve put the village behind them. “I realise such things are beyond our control, but … Perhaps it was naïve to think we wouldn’t see another trial so soon.”

“There’s nothing naïve about wanting the best for your home, your people,” he replies.

“Father seems convinced it’s a matter of perseverance. That we can survive any number of shortages or rationing if we stand together.”

“And what do you think?”

Grayson looks over at her when no answer comes. Isabeau is staring at some point dead ahead, a frown carving unhappy lines across her forehead and around her mouth. It’s a look he’s seen on her before, and so he knows better than to push. He knows, too, that by now they trust each other enough to speak freely, even considering the issue that is her father.

Whatever answer it is she’s working towards, it’s not one that will come lightly.

“I worry,” she says, finally. “Not only about what we’ll have to endure this year, but what might come after. Whatever this is, if it strikes again next harvest –”

She cuts herself off abruptly, a quiet noise of frustration escaping her. The urge to reach for her then is the strongest it’s ever been, but Grayson restrains himself. He can’t know that she’d appreciate it; more than that, it’s not his place. Still, he’s never been able to leave well enough alone, and so he bumps his shoulder gently against her own, a brief moment of contact.

It’s enough: Isabeau bumps her shoulder against his in return, casts a knowing look at him but otherwise says nothing.

They continue along their way, passing by their fields as they do so. It’s as grim a sight now as it was when he first saw the state of their crops, so much so that he’s tempted not to look. A few men stand gathered overlooking the fields; they nod in greeting as the two of them pass, and Grayson gives an answering wave. Augustus, it appears, it not amongst them.

Soon they leave even their fields behind. The wide, open plain that borders their land stretches out ahead of them, the forest to their right. Without a word Grayson turns them towards the woods.

“Would you leave?” Isabeau asks after a while. “If Sebastien gained enough support, or if he decided one day he’d had enough. Would you leave?”

Grayson blows out a long breath. “I would rather I didn’t have to. This place is my home.”

The rest of his answer goes unspoken. Judging by the look on Isabeau’s face, she knows exactly what it is he’s keeping himself from saying.

Through nothing but coincidence they’ve positioned themselves so that Grayson is closest to the edge of the trees. He has only his knife with him, though he feels in no way at risk. Even that pervading sense of observation is almost entirely dispelled, Isabeau’s presence at his side helping greatly in that regard. Isabeau herself unfortunately seems to not share in his assurance. From the corner of his eye he catches her glancing towards the woods, quick darting looks every handful of steps, as though she can’t stop herself from making them.

“It’s been some time since I’ve been this close,” she says, voice hushed.

“Does it live up to your remembrance?”

Only when he receives no answer does he realise she’s no longer beside him. He turns to find her a few paces behind, facing the trees and staring into their depths.

“You don’t truly believe those stories, do you?” she asks. “About the Great Wolf?”

He comes to a stop next to her, follows her gaze. “I seem to recall a time when you were utterly petrified by the idea. If one even mentioned needing to go into the forest you’d beg them not to.”

“When we were _children_. And I was younger than you, I didn’t know any better,” and she levels a frown on him, like he’s offended her personally.

“You’re still younger than me, Isi.”

“Don’t be smart with me. You know what I mean.”

Grayson feels a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. He buries it before she can comment, tilting his head towards their path. She stands there a few moments longer, looking back into the trees, a deeper frown on her face. Then she turns away, and they resume their patrol.

They walk in silence for a little while, Grayson pondering the answer he knows she still expects.

“You speak as though I’m some strange outlier in all this,” he says eventually. “Most of the village believes, in one form or another.”

“But you were the only one to raise the point at the meeting,” Isabeau prompts, gently.

… He was, wasn’t he?

Grayson sighs. “Your father and I haven’t always seen eye to eye. I see no reason in discounting possibilities, even those that might be thought outlandish. Not at a time like this.”

“He doesn’t know you as we do. As I do.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that. So he says nothing.

… Is his belief in the Wolf really so outlandish? He hadn’t thought so, but then, Isabeau’s point is more than a fair one. Over the years he’s heard parents and neighbours alike warn the village children to keep away from the forest – _don’t go into the woods, dear heart, for the Great Wolf’s appetite is legendary, and he will devour you whole_. Even as adults the villagers kept their distance, none but those with a need to venturing anywhere near the trees. He’s lost track of the number of times he’s caught sight of men and women alike glancing hesitantly towards the forest, even before this plague returned to ravage their crops.

But no one else came close to invoking the Wolf before Augustus and their peers.

It makes him feel foolish, like a child treating a nightmare as though it were real.

Grayson grits his teeth at the thought, and tries not to let any of what he’s feeling show on his face. If Isabeau notices his mood she has the decency not to comment on it. Together, they eventually make their way back to the village.

There are no more people milling about now than there were when they first departed. Grayson takes a wide, winding path along the outskirts of the buildings rather than cutting through. It means a few more minutes in each other’s company, and Isabeau makes no complaint; rather, she seems to enjoy looking out over the village from afar.

“That Frenchman has been making eyes at me again,” she says abruptly, something tart in her voice.

Grayson raises an eyebrow at that, follows her gaze along to find her looking at Sebastien’s home. The Frenchman in question isn’t actually in sight, though Grayson half expects him to pop into view at any moment, as though summoned by her derision.

“I think I’d rather the eyes,” Grayson mutters. “He’s still trying to speak to me.”

She stops, stares at him. “In French?”

He nods. Isabeau laughs at him then, throwing her head back and cackling, a bright and joyful sound. It sends a rush of affection through him, a burst of warmth flooding through his chest. A smile once again threatens to finds its way home on his face, and this time he doesn’t fight it, not when Isabeau lays one hand against his arm, using his own steady frame to support herself.

Her eyes are bright with amusement when she meets his gaze next. “Perhaps you should have Sebastien teach you the language in secret. You’d know what he was saying, then.”

“I’ll leave such plans to you.”

Her smile turns wicked. He wouldn’t be surprised were she to act on such an idea; he wouldn’t be surprised to learn she’d already considered it herself.

She finally steps away from him then, one last gentle touch to his arm before her hand is gone. Grayson feels the absence of her keenly, a chill swooping in so quickly it’s as though he’d never known the warmth of her at all.

It doesn’t take long after that for them to reach their starting point again. Grayson pauses there, between the edge of the village and the beginning of their fields, and ponders another circuit. Isabeau sighs as she comes to a stop beside him, and he notes the way she looks again towards the woods. He already knows she won’t be joining him should he head off once more.

“We’ve survived hard times in the past, Gray,” she says, and turns to him with a small smile. “We’ll weather this as well, I promise you.”

Grayson nods, returning the expression as best he can. He watches her make her way back towards the village, and finds himself wishing he could share her optimism.

* * *

They discover the body the following morning.

He hears the commotion before anything else, a shout that tears through the quiet of the day, followed by the low rumblings of concerned conversation. He pokes his head out his door to see a handful of his neighbours standing similarly. They cast uncertain glances around at one another, while not too far away he spots a few men making for the fields.

Grayson’s out the door and following them without a second thought.

At the edges of their fields he finds a gathering, a cluster of villagers edging around each other, blocking whatever it is they’re looking at from his sight. Grayson pushes his way through as lightly as he can, until he reaches the front.

The sight that greets him stops him immediately.

It’s one of the farmers, Wickes. His eyes stare glassily at the sky, his mouth caught half open as though he’d been in the middle of speaking. Red flecks speckle his cheeks; blood pools thick and dark on the ground, only partly soaked into the soil.

His throat’s been ripped open.

Grayson’s stomach turns. He swallows hard against the sick rising in his throat. Behind him, he hears at least one man lose the fight he’s just struggled against himself. He tries to block out the sound, looks across the body to find Augustus and Sebastien both standing there.

Sebastien meets his eyes. His face is drawn, gone pale with worry; before Grayson can even move to speak he shakes his head, the smallest of motions.

Augustus is staring at the body, something vacant in his eyes.

“You see, now? The threat that stalks our land, poisons our crops – and now it has claimed the life of one of our own.” His gaze snaps to them suddenly, and he looks around wildly at all those who stand before him. “ _This_ is what we must stand against, together, lest all we hold dear perish.”

“There are no tracks,” one of the men says – he recognises the voice as Miller, a close friend of Wickes’. “No markings of any kind, man or animal. How could this happen …?”

Staring down at the corpse, Grayson’s insides churn for another reason entirely.

For as long as he’s lived here, he’s never known of anyone that’s ever been taken by the Wolf. Ordinarily he’d chalk that up to an abundance of caution on their part, a deep respect for the only rule of theirs that really matters. But now that he thinks on it, he’s not sure he’s _ever_ heard of someone being lost to the Wolf.

The legend would’ve had to come from somewhere, surely?

The Wolf has never left his woods in all the stories he’s heard; never crept onto their land and struck first. Did Wickes cross too deeply into his territory, then? And if he did, why dump his body back on their land? Why not devour him, and leave them all to wonder at his disappearance?

There is a violence in this death he can’t ascribe to any normal man or beast, flesh ripped apart in so specific a way, furrows carved into the skin that couldn’t be made with any tool he knows of. Augustus seems convinced this is the work of his nameless threat. But if he’s wrong –

If this is the Great Wolf?

Then whatever tenuous balance existed between them may no longer be in play, and the entire village could be at risk.

He’s been staring at the woods all this time without even realising. Grayson blinks hard, comes back to himself to find Sebastien once again watching him, a frown on his face. The other men are all in one state or another, speaking to each other in quiet voices or staring at the corpse, or looking towards Augustus for guidance.

Grayson leaves before they decide what to do with the body.

There’s a gathering at the edge of the village when he returns, women and children and those who otherwise couldn’t make their way down to the site. Isabeau is at their front, anchoring them there as much as she surely wants to abandon them. They look at him with wide eyes, fear and uncertainty plain on their faces. It’s almost too much for him to meet their gaze, and in that moment he realises he’s the likely the first to return.

“What’s happened?”

“Grayson?”

Isabeau takes a step towards him when he doesn’t answer right away. She’s frowning, though it’s not irritation but concern.

“There’s been an incident,” he finally says. “Wickes has been killed.”

There are gasps and stunned silences; the women hold to one another, and those with children spirit them back to their homes. Isabeau is caught in the middle of it, just as she’d been before. He can tell from the look on her face she wants to cross to him, to speak of what he saw or what’s to be done, but one of the women is clutching to her arm, keeping her in place. Grayson takes one long look at her, committing her face to his memory in that moment.

Then he turns, and heads towards his own home.

It’s some small mercy Wickes never took a wife. He feels sick for even having thought of such a thing – a life lost is a life lost, no matter how many it’s connected to – but the idea of a spouse, a _child_ , being left in the wake of such a death …

Grayson can’t imagine having to be the bearer of such news.

They hadn’t spoken often. Save for Sebastien and a few others in his circle, Grayson had always been more content keeping his own company. He wasn’t rude about it; he’d speak happily with anyone who flagged him down, or had a need of him, but he rarely sought out conversation otherwise.

There are so many stories, so many details of his neighbours’ lives that he’ll never know. And now he’s not sure he ever will.

Grayson closes his door behind him, looks around the tiny room with all his meagre possessions. What could he possibly take with him that would be of any use? Certainly not the few glass beads he’s stolen from Sebastien over the years. Not his traps; probably even his bow would be useless. Stocking a bag with rations would serve no point, not with what he intends to do with himself.

Just his knife, then. His sole consideration to his human frailty; a ward against what might stand in his way.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there when he hears the knock at his door. Long enough for the sun to have set outside, and his room to be cast entirely in darkness. Grayson pauses to light a candle before moving to the door.

Sebastien stands on the other side.

Grayson admits him without a word.

Sebastien looks around the space, slow and careful, and Grayson knows the moment his gaze finds the knife from the way his whole body goes still. Grayson stands exactly where he is, by the now closed door, and hardly dares to move.

“So you do mean to leave,” Sebastien says. He reaches out one finger to trace along the sheath’s edge.

Grayson gives no reply; he doesn’t have to. His throat is closed so tightly he can barely breathe.

“I can’t say I’m surprised. I won’t try to stop you, either. I only wish you didn’t feel you had to.”

“Who else would do it?” Grayson asks, his voice coming out a rasp.

Sebastien shakes his head at that, a rueful smile on his face. He looks at Grayson then, finally. There’s some unreadable expression there, some emotion Grayson couldn’t hope to name, and before he has the chance to try Sebastien is stepping towards him, clutching him by the shoulders.

“We may not share a name, or blood, but you are the closest I have ever had to a son,” he says, staring Grayson dead in the eye. “Never forget that.”

His grasp turns to something almost painful, though only for a moment. And then his hands are gone, and Sebastien is stepping past him and out the door.

Grayson stands there for a long while after, not sure what to think or how to even feel. His shoulders continue to ache far longer than they should after Sebastien’s gone. His knife waits there on the table for him, inescapable, damning.

* * *

Grayson sets out the next morning, before dawn, when the thought of sunlight is more like a distant dream. It’s so quiet he swears that every shift of his foot, every loose stone or snapped twig could bring the entire village down upon him. This most recent unpleasantness only makes it feel more likely; he has no doubt more than one person here is currently lying awake, their thoughts or fears keeping them from sleep.

Augustus has set up a sentry rotation to guard their land, at least temporarily. He’d heard them discussing their plans late into the evening. There’s still a chance he could be spotted before he makes it to the woods.

But Grayson carries no torch with him, no light to guide his way. He’s walked this path countless times before. Even in the dark, the looming shadow of the trees isn’t hard to miss.

He pauses as he passes by the d’Argyll household. Isabeau will be furious with him, he’s certain of that. He wishes he’d had the chance to speak with her properly before all this, say goodbye like he would’ve liked. But perhaps it’s better this way. She might’ve tried to stop him, or claim she didn’t understand his reasoning; they’d both know that to be a lie.

Or perhaps he’d have simply taken another look at her and lost all his will to leave.

Grayson takes in a deep breath, and before his thoughts can turn fate against him, he’s leaving the village behind.

Rather than cut through the fields he almost immediately peels off to his right, aiming himself towards the forest as much as possible. He sees the flicker of a torch in the distance as he does so, whichever of his neighbours passing the slow hours on guard duty. Grayson watches the light until it disappears from view. He hopes the man won’t suffer too much for failing to spot him.

The woods seem to tower even more menacingly in the dark than they do during daylight hours. Grayson hesitates there, at the edge of the trees. He stares into their depths, only now understanding the enormity of the task he’s taken upon himself.

He has no idea where this altar might be. He’s only ever heard Sebastien and a few of the other villagers speak of it at all, and never with any certainty of its location. The forest is vast, so much larger than any of them really understand.

How can he make an offering of himself if he doesn’t know where the damn thing is?

He could spend days wandering and still not find it. The thought that maybe he should’ve brought at least _some_ rations along with him after all strikes him then, and it’s enough to make him glance back the way he came, considering. But he doesn’t trust his luck to hold; that his exit went unnoticed the first time is miraculous enough.

This is the Wolf’s territory. If he’s in any way capable of knowing when someone’s crossed into his woods, it might not even matter how long Grayson spends stumbling around within them. And if the Wolf happens to find him before he finds the altar – well. He can make his entreaties in the seconds before he’s devoured whole.

Taking in a deep breath, Grayson steps into the trees.

In the dark every move threatens to turn treacherous, so he goes slowly. No light comes through the thick canopy above. His eyes strain to make out any detail that might help guide him. He has no way of knowing when he passes the furthest point he’s ever been; whenever they’d tried to put up signs or mark the trees, those marks had all too quickly vanished. It was left to the hunters to determine how far was safe to go, their instincts telling them more than any sign ever could.

Grayson has a feeling he’ll know when he’s crossed that invisible line.

If he’d thought every noise he’d made leaving the village seemed loud, it’s nothing in comparison to here. Everything is still, not even the wind to distract from his presence. The sounds of night creatures reach his ears, distant and impossibly close all at once. Such noises never bothered him in the past, but then again, he’s never heard them in this context. If any other large predators call this forest home, they’ll have no trouble finding him; he’s convinced he’s managed to kick or trip over every branch and loose root the woods have to offer. It’s a wonder he hears any of it over the thumping of his heart, deafening in his ears.

It isn’t fear, he tells himself. At least, not any sort of fear he’s experienced before.

There’s nothing for him to do but keep moving forward. Even when he has no idea of where he’s heading; even when that all too familiar feeling creeps up his spine. He’s too far in to turn back now.

Every odd-shaped tree, every log and jutting stone draws his eye, hope sparking in his chest. None of them ever manifest into what he’s searching for.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been walking when he notices the first rays of light sifting through the trees. It’s a weak, pale thing, this light, catching in the mist hanging in the air. Far from the golden streaks of sun he’s used to judge his safety by, nothing about this offers him comfort of any sort. And the more he walks the thicker the air seems to become, that weight on his chest that he knows so well growing stronger – only this time he doesn’t turn around, can’t. He forces himself forward against it.

It’s like trying to breathe with a cloth over his face, one that pulls closer with every breath he draws through it. His lungs burn with the effort, and soon that pressure isn’t just against his chest but his entire body, as though he’s struggling against a wall he can’t see. His pace slows, every step a fight; the sounds of the forest seem to fall away entirely, until there’s nothing but the rush of his own blood in his ears and his instinct screaming at him _go back go back go BACK_ –

And then it’s gone. The pressure relents with a snap so visceral he thinks it must’ve come from within him, and he staggers as his next step lands far more easily than he’s expecting. He can _breathe_ again, and it’s such a relief he nearly doubles over with it. The sounds of the forest return slowly, a welcome change as his pulse begins to steady.

The air is no longer quite so thick, but that unsettling sensation still creeps up his spine. The urge to glance behind him builds, slowly but surely. It’s a temptation he just barely resists.

He’s not sure what would disturb him more – looking back and seeing whatever invisible force he just passed through, or finding nothing at all.

Things turn … strange, from that moment, in ways he could never hope to properly explain. The mist shifts, a thing with a mind of its own. Thin, at first; between one heartbeat and the next it grows so dense he can barely see his hand stretched out in front of him. When it clears he’s no longer facing the way he’d been – or, perhaps more accurately, he no longer seems to be standing where he’d been, his surroundings just familiar enough for him to realise he’s walked this path before.

Other times the mist clears and the trees themselves have changed, so tightly wound together it should have been impossible for them to grow at all, or so sparse Grayson thinks they could fit their hall comfortably between the trunks. And yet, even on those occasions, he still sees no end to the wood itself.

As though these signs weren’t enough, time begins to twist unnaturally before his very eyes. It hasn’t been so long since he first noticed sunlight filtering through the trees; even with every one of these bizarre occurrences, he’s sure of this much. But somehow with every step the light begins to shift as well, gradually but unmistakably, until he’s staring down dusk in nowhere near the right amount of time. He finally gives into temptation, glances behind –

The light is noticeably brighter, as though he were standing in another forest entirely.

 _Unnerving_ is putting it mildly. It feels in some way as if there’s fun being had at his expense, though by whom he doesn’t know. There’s clearly something unnatural at work here – he’d have to be a fool not to realise that – but at the same time, applying intent to something that by all rights _shouldn’t have any_ is almost more than his mind can bear.

“Come on,” he tells himself under his breath. “Can’t stop now.”

He pushes on.

It’s dark again when he finds the clearing. The altar stands there in the middle, a great slab of grey-white stone. He knows from the very moment he sees it that this is what he’s been searching for; the stone is immaculate in a way that can only be unnatural, all perfectly cut lines and sharp edges. There’s not an imperfection that he can see, like it sprang into being as a whole – and perhaps it did, for all he knows.

Slowly, carefully, Grayson paces around the altar. It isn’t what he was expecting, to tell the truth. There are no arcane symbols carved into the stone, neither on its sides nor its top; no claw marks, where a massive paw might have once lashed out. Not even the stain of old blood soaked into the surface.

The altar reaches about to his waist when he steps up to it. He’s half convinced, as he presses his palm against its surface, that he’ll feel some thrum of energy from within, or something equally miraculous. But there’s nothing, only cold, firm stone.

Standing there, staring at the altar, Grayson finds himself at a loss.

Is there some ritual he ought to perform? Some way of … preparing himself, cleansing himself, for the coming sacrifice? He’s never had to make such considerations; it’s certainly not a topic he’s ever heard discussed around the village campfire. Is this the sort of thing one _could_ even make a mess of?

He’s come this far. The last thing he wants is to trip over the final hurdle.

… Should he strip, or …?

Grayson shakes his head at himself, abandons the thought in a heartbeat.

In the end he settles for clambering atop the thing, sits with both legs dangling off the edge and considers his position. The altar is long enough that he could lie down with ease, and probably that’s the intent. Will his presence alone be enough to draw the beast here, though? He’s already lasted this long without a hint of it sniffing him out.

He thinks of his knife, then, still strapped safely to his side. Surely there’s no harm in helping the Wolf along?

Unsheathing his blade, Grayson cuts a careful line along the outside of his palm. He watches his blood drip down his wrist, slowly but steadily. Before it can be drawn into the material of his shirt, he pushes his hands down against the stone, shifts his legs up and lays himself flat upon the altar.

The woods are quiet around him. Not the oppressive silence that had threatened to swallow him before, but something closer to when he’d first stepped into the forest. The mist has faded, or so it seems; the clearing gives him an open view of the sky above, a small, perfect stretch of rich blue-black, pinpricks of light blinking down at him.

Grayson stares up at the stars, and waits.

There’s a small pool of blood growing beneath his cut hand. He imagines it must look quite striking, the red standing out vibrantly against the white of the stone. In his other hand he still grips his blade. He holds it to his chest, not out of any intent to protect himself, but more out of comfort.

… What sort of offering brings a knife to their own sacrifice?

Grayson nearly snorts at the absurdity of it all.

He draws in a deep breath, savouring the chill air while he still can. Then he waits.

* * *

Grayson wakes up.

On its own that much is shocking enough. What’s stranger still is that he’s no longer lying upon the altar.

He comes to with a jolt, heart thumping in his chest, and opens his eyes not to a clear sky above him but to a canopy of green. Grayson frowns at the sight, confused, moves to push himself up. But instead of stone he finds soft earth beneath his hands, soil and old leaves damp against his palms.

There’s no sign of the altar. He recognises nothing of what he sees around him, even with all the strangeness of yesterday’s wanderings. The clearing, as far as he can tell, is nowhere to be seen.

Grayson’s insides churn as he gets to his feet. One would think by now he’d be used to the feeling of dread creeping up his spine, but he feels it as strongly as ever. He had thought the only danger he’d have to contend with here would be the Wolf, but the woods themselves – they twist so abnormally, turn his very senses against him, the one thing he thought he could rely on.

If he can’t trust his own instincts, what _can_ he trust?

His knife, somehow, is still with him, not in his hand but back in its sheath, and if things weren’t so strange already it might have caught him off guard. The cut along his hand is still there, stinging and clotted over. He’s never been so glad to see an injury in all his life.

The question still remains, however – why is he alive?

Was offering himself up as he did not enough?

He refuses to believe the Wolf couldn’t have found him. Especially with his blood in the air. The very nature of this place is leading him to question things he’s never had any cause to, as though this could all be some invention of his mind. Perhaps he’s still lying on the altar; perhaps he’s already been devoured, and this is the reward of his sacrifice.

His fingers find the edges of the cut without him even thinking. Pain sparks sharp and bright as he presses against the wound, enough to make him hiss. And perhaps he can’t trust in that as much as he thinks, but it’s one of the few things he has left to hold onto.

Standing around waiting will do him no good, regardless of the end result. Maybe if he’s lucky he’ll find the clearing again, put himself back on the altar where he belongs. And with no recourse left to him, Grayson begins to walk.

If all of this is some waking dream or trick of the forest it’s hardly a surprise his mind would fall for it. Everything feels just as it should; he could be stepping through the tree line, checking his traps or finishing up his hunt for the day, and not a thing would be out of place. Only his memory of pushing through that strange barrier tells him otherwise. The mist has cleared, at least for the time being, the trees behaving exactly as they should. Even time seems to be moving correctly, bright afternoon sun filtering through the branches above.

But there’s no sign of the altar. No sign of the Wolf, no matter how much distance he covers.

He doesn’t know exactly how long he’s been walking when the trees begin to thin again, naturally this time. He can see … something, some shape emerging from between and behind them, though he can’t quite make it out, and before he can stop to consider otherwise Grayson’s pushing onwards.

The clearing he steps out into is larger than the one that held the altar, and nowhere near as mysterious. It brings him to a halt all the same.

A small hut stands to the rear of the clearing. It’s a simple thing, about the size of his own home at first glance, built of wood and tightly woven sticks. Hides are strewn in places, strapped to the roof or against the walls. The ground in a wide arc surrounding the hut is worn flat; there may be no tools or belongings he can see to suggest occupancy, but the ground tells him enough. So too does the fire pit, a few long paces from the hut’s entrance. The charred logs at its centre still gives off some heat when he holds his hand to them.

Someone was here, recently. And not just passing through, but _living here_ , in this place.

Grayson stands quickly, eyes darting around the clearing. He opens his mouth, to call out to whoever might call this place home –

And stops himself just in time.

These woods still belong to the Wolf. He can’t let himself forget that. However this person has managed to survive here – assuming they actually _exist_ , and aren’t just some trick turned against him – the last thing Grayson would want is to bring the beast to their door. Besides, the fire pit is enough to give him hope that they might still be close by. Maybe if he hurries, he’ll find them.

Grayson casts one last look at the hut as he passes, tempted to peer inside. It’s an urge he just barely resists.

With every step he takes away from the clearing he feels more and more as though he’s made a mistake. It’s a niggling doubt he can’t quite silence, a seed that digs its roots in as soon as they sprout, and no matter how he tries to ignore it the thought burrows deep. By the time he gives in and looks over his shoulder he no longer recognises any of his surroundings, the clearing lost to him.

A certain discomforting mist is hanging in the air once more, creeping in at the corners of his vision. Grayson pushes on, tries to pay it no mind.

And before he’s ready for it – far before it really _should_ – the sun is dipping towards the horizon again, gold-orange light bleeding through the trees, all too quickly swallowed by the dark. A prickle trips along the back of his neck, urging him to look behind; it goes ignored. What’s ahead is of far greater concern. Already he’s having trouble seeing what’s in front of him, the encroaching night and the mist making monsters and obstacles out of the most innocuous of trees.

He needs to find somewhere to take shelter until this spell passes. It’s growing colder, far colder than it’s been in all his time here –

There’s a sigh like a hurricane, rustling the trees and his clothes alike, and a great shifting noise as something begins to move, and Grayson’s turning towards the sound before he can even think about it –

Turns in time to see a massive paw reach between the trees, shattering with a _crunch_ a fallen branch as wide around as Grayson. A chill washes over him, through his very _blood_ ; his heart jackrabbits in his chest, his feet rooted to the ground as he stares. It should be impossible – he can see beyond the tree where that paw is emerging, and the creature’s body _simply is not there_. But then another leg comes into view, and then the muzzle, until he’s staring down the front half of the beast.

The Great Wolf turns towards him, eyes glinting in the darkness.

For what feels like an eternity they both stand there, watching each other. Then the Wolf’s lips pull back, a growl that rattles through Grayson’s chest coming from behind its gleaming fangs. And Grayson doesn’t think about the altar, the village, or his offering.

He runs.

The growl turns to something louder, ravenous and angry. Grayson barely hears it over the sound of his blood rushing in his ears, his heart beating so hard he’s afraid it might just give out. The jolt of every footfall rockets up his legs but it’s as though the feeling belongs to someone else; he doesn’t think about it, can’t, not when every thought in his head is screaming for him to _run_. He has no idea of where he’s going, eyes darting over everything so quickly it hardly registers.

That – that thing, it was _massive_ , as tall as their homes if not more, and he’s heard the stories, but to see it _in person_ –

The ground shakes.

It’s chasing after him.

Grayson’s insides lurch, adrenaline flooding him so strongly he’s nearly sick with it. Goddamn fool, it’s a fucking _wolf_ , what did he think was going to happen? That thing could crush him without a thought, snap him in half with no effort at all; it’s going to catch him no matter how fast he runs –

The mist swirls before him as he sprints forward, threatening to trip him up. He needs to find _something_ , some way out, but he can’t _see_ and there are scratches on his arms from where branches have caught him as he’s passed by too closely, and his lungs are burning with the strain, and with every length he covers the ground shakes as the beast gets closer, closer, _closer_.

There, to his right – a small incline, the ground dipping downwards, the first change in landscape he’s seen in all this time –

The air behind him shifts, so minute a change he only recognises it on some instinctual level. Then there’s a _snap_ , the thunderous sound of jaws slamming shut right at his back, so close he swears he feels the brush of fur against his shirt –

And Grayson doesn’t even think, just throws himself down the hill.

His feet go out from under him the moment he lands, and for a moment the world is nothing but a blur of greys and blacks. The air is knocked out of him more and more with every jolt of his body. But he doesn’t fight it, lets his momentum carry him through every dizzying turn until he doesn’t know trunk from leaves. Only when his shoulder slams into something solid does he come to a stop; the gasp it knocks loose proves there’s still breath left in his lungs to be lost.

Sprawled at the bottom of the hill, shoulder pulsing agony with every heartbeat, Grayson gets a handful of seconds to lie there and catch his breath. It’s a rock that’s brought his tumble to a halt, a great, sharp thing jutting out of the earth like an arrowhead. There’s space enough at its base that he could crawl beneath the overhang. And it’s as he’s lying there that he sees movement at the top of the hill, a pair of bright eyes in a shadowy outline as the Wolf stares down at him.

He scrambles himself backwards before that first paw can fall, buries himself as far under the rock as he can. Leaves stick to his hands; he sweeps them over as much of his body as possible. His blood roars in his ears, every breath coming ragged. The ground begins to shake then, slowly but steadily, each step bringing the inevitable nearer. He slaps his sleeve over his mouth, tries to smother the din that is his breathing.

It’s an eternity and no time at all before the first paw steps into view, then another, and another. Grayson hardly dares to look. He can hear it, deep, heavy exhales that scatter the leaves on the ground; his own body is nearly shaking, desperate for air but too afraid to make a sound.

It should be able to scent him. From this close, with all his blood and sweat and fear; rocks and leaves can’t possibly stand against those claws, those fangs.

But the Wolf just stands there, statue-still. Then, with a sound suspiciously like a huff, it pads away.

Grayson huddles there a long, long while before he pulls his sleeve from his mouth; longer still before he even thinks of moving. His entire body is wound tight, muscles tensed and aching. Any moment he’s expecting the beast to come tearing back into sight, the shaking ground his only warning, and his ears strain for any hint his instinct is correct.

He’s in no hurry to move. Not really. If the Wolf thinks it can lure him into the open through some false sense of security, it’s going to be sorely disappointed.

He’s a patient man. He can wait it out.

* * *

Grayson wakes up.

It’s a sudden, nearly violent thing; he’s lucky he doesn’t crack his head on the rock above him as he jerks back into consciousness. He’s half expecting something else – for the ground to shake, or a great gust of breath to bowl him over before jaws close around his leg – but he finds nothing but the clear light of morning filtering through the trees, picturesque and calm.

He hesitates there a moment, ears pricked for a sound of any kind. When nothing comes, he slowly eases himself out from under the rock.

Everything is still, and quiet. Grayson turns in a slow circle, glancing up the hill and all around him. Everywhere he looks, the ground is pristine, as though his flight through the woods had never happened; there isn’t a single hint the Wolf was ever here. It’s enough to send a chill up his spine, and the more he thinks about it the stronger it grows.

So he doesn’t think about it, puts his back to the hill and starts walking.

It’s a decision he regrets almost as soon as he makes it. There isn’t a part of him that isn’t sore, a deep pain in his legs and back from where he’s held himself still all night. It’s worst in his shoulder, heat pulsing against his fingers when he reaches for it. He hasn’t broken skin, or bone, at least to his best guess, but it hurts like nothing else. There’s nothing he can do but ignore it, grit his teeth and force his way forward.

Things are just as placid as they’d been when he’d awoken the day before, no sign of mist and the sun behaving as it should. If he hadn’t woken beneath that rock – and if his shoulder weren’t so keen to remind him of its existence – he might’ve thought it all some terrifying, deeply vivid dream.

He’s glad that’s not the case. He thinks he’s already past the point of weirdness he can tolerate.

Surviving the night hasn’t changed his priorities any. If he can find his way back to the altar perhaps he can find some sign of what went wrong the first time. The second needs no explanation, though he can’t imagine many people who _wouldn’t_ turn and flee at the sight of such a beast. Hell, at this point he thinks he’d take a way out, go crawling back to the village with his head hung in shame – anything to be finished with this strange and fruitless wandering.

Perhaps that hill was a sign of what’s to come. New territory to explore; something different on the horizon. Another path opening to him.

The thought gives him confidence, enough to push himself onward with new vigour.

And then he steps past the closest ring of trees to find himself staring down an all too familiar hut.

“… How on earth …?”

Grayson splutters, looks around himself, behind, but he knows, _he knows_ he came down that hill. He hasn’t even been walking that long! He couldn’t have gotten himself so turned around as to make it back here legitimately.

So much for things seeming normal.

He blames this shock for how long it takes him to realise there’s now a fire burning in the pit.

Grayson goes still immediately. His pulse kicks up as he glances round the camp, sure that he’s going to spot someone – some _thing_ – out the corner of his eye, lurking at the edge of the building, or behind a nearby tree. But as long as he stands there no one appears, and Grayson slowly steps deeper into the clearing.

It’s strange, how something as simple as a fire sets his nerves at ease. The ground beside the pit is undisturbed; he can see no sign of anyone having moved about at all, in fact. Still, it’s with some amount of caution that he settles near the fire.

Carefully sat there, a safe reach from the flames, Grayson stretches out his fingers and wiggles them gently before the fire.

He won’t stay long; he shouldn’t. Not when he doesn’t know whose camp it is he’s imposing himself upon. But at this distance the heat of the flames is something gentle, easing away the chill of the morning – and the horrors of the night before. It’s … pleasant. Calming, to have a bit of normalcy again, after the way he left behind his home, and how he’s spent the past couple of days.

… Has it even _been_ days, with how strangely time has been shifting? He’s not sure he can say with any certainty.

It’s not enough to soothe the ache in his protesting muscles, not by any stretch of the imagination, but Grayson feels warmth seeping through him all the same. Despite his intentions otherwise he finds himself beginning to relax, and so he doesn’t quite recognise at first the sound of movement, heavy fabric being shifted to one side, not until he’s looking up from the fire.

There’s a man, standing in the entrance of the hut, a bundle of wood in his arms.

Grayson stares. The man stares back.

He stumbles as he races to his feet, up and away from the fire, one hand automatically reaching for his knife even as he holds the other out placatingly.

“I mean you no harm,” Grayson says, unsteadily.

“And yet you’re the one with your hand on your blade.”

The man could put a statue to shame, standing there as he is. What brief look of shock had crossed his face is gone now, buried beneath a carefully blank mask. His eyes make a quick journey up and down Grayson’s body before returning to his face; whatever conclusions he comes to, Grayson has no hope of knowing.

He won’t fault his own instincts, his reactions, not after the night he’s just had. He’s aware enough, however, to realise the picture he must present – a stranger in his own right, hovering on someone else’s land, drawing a weapon at first sight. Grayson doesn’t know this man, or why he’s seemingly made a home here in these woods; nor does he trust him. But to make an enemy of the first person he meets, and under these particular circumstances no less – he can all too easily imagine the disappointed look Sebastien would set upon him.

Slowly, deliberately, he takes his hand from the hilt of his knife.

The man watches every inch of movement, his expression shifting not a fraction. Grayson’s fully expecting him to continue standing there, foreboding as he is, when the man suddenly moves, stepping out of the shadow of the hut and into the space opposite him. With one easy motion he leans down, setting the pile at the furthest edge of the pit. It gives Grayson the best look he’s had thus far as the man straightens up: a strong, solid build, fair skin, ginger hair swept back from his face. They’re of a height, or at least it seems that way from where he stands; one of them might have an inch or two on the other. His feet are bare, oddly enough. Beyond that he wears a pair of simple trousers, and a thick, dark-furred cloak about his shoulders, nothing else beneath.

His face is stern, inscrutable. From this distance it’s impossible to tell the colour of his eyes, though they glint at him with all the intensity of the flames between them.

“Tend the fire, if you mean to rest a while,” the man says then, before Grayson can bring himself to speak. “But I’d rather you were gone by the time I return.”

Then, yanking free an axe lodged in a nearby stump, he disappears into the trees.

Grayson can only stand there at first, staring at the place where the man vanished from his sight.

The unreality of the encounter, when it hits him, is enough to make him doubt his mind all over again. He glances sharply around himself, half expecting his surroundings to have changed when he looks back. The hut remains in place, however, the scene exactly as it was.

The urge to take a step, to follow the man or look inside his home, strikes even stronger than it did the first time. He wants to look upon evidence of this stranger’s life, feel the bones of his hut, and try to convince himself what’s there is real. But the thought of trailing after him into the woods is almost as discomforting as the thought of rummaging around his home uninvited; he can’t explain the feeling, only that it sits heavily in his gut, cold and twisting.

He won’t set foot inside that hut without permission. Whatever instinct this is, he’ll heed it.

Grayson doesn’t linger after that, for all that the fire calls to him. The stranger already made his demands; let him draw his own conclusions. He puts his back to the hut and heads out in another direction, opposite from where the man had gone.

With the way the forest has been playing with him, he supposes it’s still possible they’ll cross paths even with all his efforts otherwise.

So he walks, and tries not to think about the man and those piercing eyes of his, or their brief, bizarre encounter.

* * *

The Wolf doesn’t find him that night. Not even after the mist clears from the thickest haze he’s ever seen, the dark it leaves behind so total he could be walking around with his eyes shut. He catches only the briefest flickers of light off in the distance, winking at him as eyes do. Every time he notices them his insides lurch, waiting for the ground to start shaking, or for some new horror to be unleashed.

The danger never manifests, and he’s left uncomfortably on edge.

It’s not as though he’s terribly keen to find himself facing down the beast again, but the constant state of anticipation it leaves him in is just as exhausting, if in a different way.

In the end he finds a small cluster of trees he can wedge himself between, presses his back against the closest trunk and stares out into the night. It’s not comfortable – bark scratches at him even through his shirt, and his muscles are already protesting how he’s hunched in on himself – but he’s as close as he’ll get to safe, at least for the moment.

Grayson draws in a deep breath, watches it fog before him as he exhales. He tries not look too hard for any flickers of light out there in the dark.

* * *

He’s flat on his back when he wakes this time, and he knows even before he opens his eyes that he can’t possibly be in the same place he fell asleep. The way he’d crammed himself in amongst the trees could allow for nothing but sore limbs and poor rest; that he could’ve ended up reclined in any way would have been nothing short of a miracle. So when he cracks one lid to see mostly open sky above him his heart jolts, thinking maybe, _maybe_ he’s somehow ended up back on the altar. But the surface below him isn’t the unyielding slab of rock he wants it to be, and the view he has above is only a brief break in the canopy.

Grayson pushes himself up on his elbows, glances around. He doesn’t think he recognises this particular piece of the forest, but then, would he really know? Every tree looks the same after a while; even if he took to marking them, it wouldn’t surprise him to see them vanished, just as before.

He could stay sprawled here, on the ground. Wait for the Wolf to find him. It would probably be easier than stumbling his way through these woods; less exhausting, too. But his hand throbs when he goes to shift it, the sting enough to draw his eye.

When has he ever taken the easy way out?

With a bitten back huff, Grayson forces himself to his feet.

He knows better than to fall into distraction, especially at a time like this; just because there’s daylight doesn’t mean trouble won’t find him. Even so, he finds his thoughts drifting as he walks.

What would Sebastien make of all of this? None of his stories could ever have prepared Grayson for the strangeness he’s encountered here, and he’d like to think Sebastien would be understanding in that regard. Still, he can’t entirely silence the quiet voice in his ear, the one telling him how disappointed Sebastien would be that he hasn’t achieved what he set out to do – that he’s a coward, for running from the beast as he did.

The thought sits like stone in his gut.

He wonders what the others must think of him. Augustus’s fury would surely have been a sight to behold; he only hopes Sebastien didn’t bear the brunt of it. It’s impossible to think of Augustus without thinking of Isabeau, of course. The picture his mind conjures of her is more than he can bear, equal parts furious and heartbroken. All the curses she’d lay upon his name ring as clearly in his head as though she were speaking them right beside him, and just as easily can he imagine her storming off towards the woods, intent on following him.

Someone would try to stop her. Of course they would. Somehow, he imagines it being her own hesitance that’d bring her to a halt, right at the edge of the trees and staring into their depths.

He knows her well enough to believe it possible. He hopes it’s the case, honestly. The last thing he’d ever want is for her to follow him into a situation like his.

Such an idea is sobering enough it sends his mind into a spiral of worry, one so deep it makes all other thoughts pale in comparison. It’s with this shadow over him that he pushes on further into the woods. It should be as a whetstone to sharpen his resolve; mostly he just feels ill.

Losing track of time seems to be the easiest thing he can do in this place, even when there isn’t anything out of the ordinary to contend with. So he doesn’t know exactly how long he’s been walking, slipping in and out of thought, when he steps past the nearest tree and into a clearing.

“Oh, for god’s sake –”

The hut stands there in all its glory.

The man is already outside this time, perched on a log and carving away at something. He glances up when he hears Grayson curse. A frown crosses his face when he sees him standing there.

Grayson can’t say he’s particularly thrilled, either.

… It might not be so frustrating if he could only _understand_ how this place works. He _knows_ he couldn’t have found this clearing again so easily, thought that the night and the mist were his best indicators of something weird going on around him, and yet here he is again. Somehow.

“Back so soon?” the man calls.

Despite having spoken all of a dozen words to each other, there’s a sardonic twist to his voice that not even Grayson could miss. Something about it sticks under his skin, or maybe it’s the situation itself; either way, the man’s already lost interest in him, his focus back on whatever it is he’s working on.

He could just leave. Maybe he should, with how irritation is prickling away at him. But when he finds himself stepping further into the campground, Grayson doesn’t try to fight it.

“I realise we didn’t meet on the friendliest terms,” Grayson says, speaking as carefully as he moves, “and in no way do you owe me anything, but I would ask a question of you.”

The man looks up at that, one eyebrow arched curiously.

“Tell me – how long has it been since you last saw me here?”

There’s a long moment where there’s nothing but silence, the man watching him closely and Grayson trying to hold himself steady under the scrutiny. It’s not the sort of thing that should leave him feeling vulnerable, and yet he does. The man’s gaze helps none, his face blank save for that eyebrow, and it’s just as easy to read ridicule there as indifference. Perhaps he thinks Grayson mad. It would be a fair consideration, after a query like his. But to not ask would have been just as troubling to his mind.

Grayson thinks he can bear the mockery of a man he’ll never have to meet again.

“I suppose such a question is only natural in a place like this,” the man finally replies. “You were here yesterday.”

A sigh bursts out of him almost immediately, relief so intense Grayson nearly doubles over with it. He settles for dragging his hands over his face instead, squeezing his eyes shut tightly.

It’s a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. His fear of this somehow being the same day playing itself out time and again, impossible though it should seem, has stuck with him since the thought first occurred to him. To know that, at least in this instance, the world is behaving as it should … such news goes a long way to ease his doubts.

As much as he can trust the word of this stranger, of course.

When he composes himself again he opens his eyes to find the man watching him even more intently than before, his hands having ceased their movement. There’s a stillness to him then that sends a chill up Grayson’s spine.

And then the moment passes, and the man shrugs.

“For what counts as yesterday, I should say. If you know to ask that question you’ve already realised how strangely time can move in these woods.”

What brief good mood he’d felt leaves him as quickly as it had first descended. Grayson tries not to let his disappointment show too clearly. With the way the man’s eyes still linger on him, he doubts he’s very successful.

Grayson dips his head. “I thank you for your answer. Though … if you’d permit me to ask another – do you know where I could find the stone altar?”

The man’s eyes narrow.

“The altar.”

Grayson nods. There’s another long moment of silence then, the man looking at him as though he’s waiting for something – for Grayson to elaborate, perhaps, or take the question back entirely. Grayson offers nothing of either sort, only stands there, waiting. When the man realises he’s not going to get an answer a dark look crosses his face.

“For what possible reason could you want to go there?”

“My reasons are my own. Surely you can appreciate that.”

The man’s frown deepens, ever so slightly. Then, dropping his gaze back to his handiwork, he says, “I’ve never had any cause to seek it out. I couldn’t tell you even if wished to.”

Grayson fights off another sigh. “I had hoped for better news. Still, I thank you for it.”

It would have been foolish to imagine he’d get all the answers he’s seeking. He’s doing better than he thought he’d be, in all honesty. That the stranger hasn’t run him off with his axe is an equally good sign – at least, he chooses to see it as such. Regardless of anything else, he set off on this quest alone; he doesn’t expect it to continue in any other way.

Drawing himself up, Grayson crosses the ground, eyes locked on the forest ahead. He’s only just stepped past when the man calls to him:

“If the forest has no desire for you to find that place, I doubt you’ll ever do so.”

He smiles grimly. “Let us hope that she’s feeling generous, then, shall we?”

He doesn’t look behind him as he leaves.

* * *

Nightfall brings with it the man’s voice echoing in his ears. It sounds a little smugger than he remembers it being in person, somehow, though the words remain the same. His warning, it seems, was in no way empty; the forest does not desire Grayson to find the altar, no matter how much time he spends stumbling through its undergrowth.

But when has he ever allowed such a thing as _otherworldly intent_ to get in his way?

So he pushes on, even as nerves prickle across his skin, his darting eyes searching as much for the Wolf as the altar.

It’s a clear night. Perhaps the clearest he’s had the fortune of wandering thus far. His breath still fogs before him when he breathes out, but it doesn’t feel quite as cold as it has before.

He’s not so arrogant as to believe he’s getting used to this place. He’s not sure he’d _want_ to, frankly.

The time to stop his roaming is long since passed – should’ve found somewhere to hunker down and hide the moment the sun set – but Grayson finds himself continuing on regardless. His heart beats a constant rhythm in his ears, painfully loud in the quiet that surrounds him. The more the stillness draws out the harder it begins to pound, and all the steady breathing and self-assurances in the world don’t see it slow.

His instincts are screaming about _something_ , but no matter where he looks he finds only trees and empty space.

He thinks it’s fatigue, at first, some mix of weariness and an overactive imagination that makes him see the figure. Movement draws his eye and it brings him to a stop immediately, his heart leaping in his chest, mind already racing before he realises – the outline is human, not wolf. Grayson’s far enough away that he can’t discern much beyond the fact they’re tall, and walking with a strange gait. Logic demands it be the man from the hut; he can’t imagine someone _else_ living here. But the harder he looks, the clearer it becomes: the figure is too tall, far taller than the man would be, even from this distance, and its gait is the result of limbs that reach far, far longer than they should.

Grayson stands there, frozen. A flood of cold dread washes over him. He can’t move, can’t tear his eyes away; the creature carries on, apparently unaware of him, and Grayson has no desire for that to change. As he watches, it passes behind a tree, out of sight.

Nothing appears from the other side.

A long, long moment passes where everything is still, and Grayson hardly dares to breathe. Then the ground shakes.

The great, shadowy form of the Wolf steps into view.

Grayson stares and stares, his blood a dull roar in his ears. Maybe if he doesn’t move – maybe if he’s quiet enough, it won’t notice him –

Or maybe he should let the beast do what it nearly managed to the first time he saw it.

The notion is so foreign it nearly makes him jolt, but there’s no time to think about it or where it came from: as though drawn by his thoughts, the Wolf turns gleaming eyes towards him.

Grayson doesn’t move, not even when the Wolf lowers its head, a low growl filling the air between them. His heart pounds faster and faster with every step it closes in; not so loud he can’t still hear that taunting voice in his ear, so close to his own. _Just stay still, let it come – be a_ man _and do what you should’ve done, what you_ came here for _. Give yourself for the village – let it find you, let it_ devour _–_

The Wolf is stalking closer, its jaw hanging open.

_You made an offering of yourself; this is what you wanted –_

There are only a few arm lengths between them when Grayson bolts.

Whatever else the voice might accuse him of is lost beneath the Wolf’s snarl and the rush of air in his ears as he runs. There’s no time to think, even less space separating them than that first encounter, and the trees all blur into one as he races past. The ground shakes with such force it threatens to send him stumbling –

Something crashes into him from behind.

He hits the dirt with a jarring thud, all his breath knocked out of him in an instant. The force of the impact rings through his entire body, but especially in his chest, his lungs burning as they struggle to find their rhythm. Even before they do, he’s pushing himself forward, _away_ ; the Wolf can’t be far behind –

A massive paw flattens the earth beside Grayson’s head.

He rolls onto his back even as his body protests. The Wolf stands above him, a monstrous sight of black hair and teeth. Golden eyes glare down at him, bright and furious; hot breath washes over his face with every exhale. It hasn’t moved to attack him yet, but that doesn’t mean it won’t, and Grayson isn’t about to make an easy meal of himself. Without even thinking he draws his knife, stabs blindly upwards.

Warmth drips down his fingers, along his wrist. The Wolf makes a noise that seems more confused than hurt, but it pulls back a fraction, just for a moment. That moment is all he needs. Grayson shoves himself back, out from under the body of the beast, and with its growl in his ears he starts running again.

If he thought he could make it to the top he’d throw himself up a tree, but the images that fill his head – flashes of his body being ripped from the branch he’s clinging to, or the tree being _battered to the ground_ – keep him from trying. He doesn’t have it in him to flee as he did before, lungs still struggling with every breath. But he knows he can’t have wounded the Wolf too badly – the earth is shaking even now as it follows along behind him – and he needs to find _something_ , some place to hide, _anything_ –

Claws rake across his back.

Grayson gasps, stumbles, but it’s only a glancing blow, not enough to knock him over. This is it, he’s certain; if the beast is close enough to claw him, it’s close enough to reach him in earnest. But the attack he’s expecting doesn’t come. Realisation hits him then, an understanding that runs right down to his bones:

The Wolf is toying with him.

It feels like his back has been set alight, but he can’t stop. Mist is swirling at his feet, and the trees ahead are growing denser, standing out like the bars of a cage as far along as he can see.

Grayson doesn’t think, just throws himself through one of the gaps.

Adrenaline isn’t quite enough to mask the pain as he hits the ground _again_ , agony sparking across his back as he rolls awkwardly over himself. When the world is the right way up once more his eyes race to the line of trees, not knowing what he’ll find –

The Wolf has skidded to a stop. With a low growl it begins to pace before the natural barrier, seemingly looking for a way in but finding none. As Grayson pushes himself to his feet the growl gets louder. He’s loath to look at it, even as every instinct he has tells him not to turn away. He isn’t so close as to be in danger, though, and the rush of running for his life is wearing off; every ache and pain is making itself known with greater strength, his back especially. He can’t help himself, reaches for the wounds as best he can. His fingers come back wet and dark.

Whether it’s the sight of his own blood on his hands or the sting of the cuts, Grayson feels a spark of anger light beneath his skin.

“Couldn’t have done it quickly, could you?” he spits at the Wolf. “Just _had_ to play with your food –”

A paw swipes through the gap. It comes so close Grayson feels the rush of air against his face as it misses him. Instinct jerks him back regardless, a hiss through his teeth and his hand lashing out, his knife catching the beast’s flesh. The Wolf snaps its jaws at him, a furious sound coming from behind those teeth. It doesn’t draw back its paw right away, digging at the ground instead.

The line of trees holds firm.

Grayson backs away slowly, not taking his eyes from the Wolf until it has almost entirely vanished from his sight.

* * *

He’s not expecting to see sunlight when he opens his eyes.

Not because he believed he’d perish during the night, but because he doesn’t remember falling asleep at all. Such a thing had seemed impossible. With every move his wounds had stung and pulled, his shirt plastered uncomfortably to his back. Lying down had been out of the question, even if he’d somehow found a place that felt safe enough to do so; wedging his shoulder against a tree and curling into himself had felt equally uncomfortable. His mind had proven just as troublesome as his body, conjuring up thoughts of the Wolf finding him; how easy it would be, with his blood in the air. With such things plaguing him, the idea of sleep had been almost incomprehensible.

And yet.

He doesn’t even know if this place he’s woken is where he drifted off. Perhaps it doesn’t matter.

A chill runs through him the moment the thought leaves his head.

Of course it should matter. He may not have the power to change it, but just because these woods can play with his mind doesn’t mean he has to like it. Even when he meets his end, it shouldn’t be at the expense of his own beliefs.

Teeth clenched, he tries to ease his shirt away from his wounds. He feels it stick and stretch regardless of how gently he tugs.

It would be easier if he could find a river or something similar; let him soak the cuts, or at least allow him to probe at them with fingers that aren’t half-coated in dirt and grime. He can’t recall having seen one during all his wanderings, however, and something about that should bother him, prickles away at the back of his mind. Whatever the thought is, it’s tucked away before he can consider it too closely. His focus instead falls on his wounds.

Three jagged scores across his back, the topmost so high up he has trouble feeling it out. Moving his arm even this much makes the sting worse but he can’t help himself, needs to know the extent of it. Breath escapes him in a hiss when his fingers skim the centre of each, tacky and raw to the touch. They’re nowhere near as deep as he was expecting, by some small mercy. Poking at them will surely do him no good, but he can’t stop himself, not until he’s mapped out all three as best he can.

“Bastard,” Grayson grits out, and draws his hand back. His fingers are dotted with red.

If the Wolf is capable of wandering during daylight then it really doesn’t matter where he goes, or how much distance he covers – with these wounds, it’s likely to sniff him out regardless. It feels more like obligation when he picks a direction and starts walking, but what else is there for him to do? Sit around and wait for the beast to find him, while his wounds slowly fester and rot?

Fruitless as it all may be, he has to do _something_.

It’s no longer a surprise when he steps into the clearing, some unknown amount of wandering later.

There’s no fire this time, but he finds himself drawn towards the pit regardless, settling down beside it. The man is nowhere to be seen – though, as Grayson reminds himself, that doesn’t mean he isn’t around. Thus far the stranger has displayed an uncanny knack for showing up whenever Grayson’s found his way here, and undoubtedly this time will be no different. The only question is where he could be. Out wandering the nearby woods, perhaps, or sequestered away in his hut.

Grayson eyes the bones of the building, traces up and down the reach of them, where different sections and materials intertwine. It’s fine work. Better than anything Grayson could ever accomplish on his own, that much is certain. How long did it take him to build, he wonders?

His gaze settles on the entrance, the desire to draw back the flap and peer inside growing ever stronger. It’s as he’s thinking this that the fabric shifts, and a moment later the man steps out.

It takes him a second to notice Grayson. His eyebrows shoot up when he does, surprise plain on his face before he buries it under a frown.

“You survived the hunt.”

Grayson shrugs. He regrets it immediately, wincing as his wounds pull. The man notices, because of course he does; he tilts his head, but otherwise says nothing. He lingers in the entrance a few moments longer before letting the flap fall closed behind him, crossing to the other side of the camp.

Grayson sits and watches him in silence. The man seems disinclined to ask him to leave, and so long as that’s the case Grayson is more than happy to hang about. He’ll welcome a reprieve of any sort, and this is as good a place as any. He may not quite understand whatever it is that’s drawing him back here, but it’s not as though he has anywhere better to be, is it?

So he sits, and watches. The man keeps his cloak pulled tightly closed around him as he goes about his work. Every so often the dark fur catches the light in such a way it would draw his eye even if he weren’t already looking. In those moments the fur looks so thick and warm he wants to run his fingers through it, if only to see if his imagination is correct.

There’s something almost regal about him, Grayson thinks then, in the clash of the dark fur and his pale skin; in the handsome lines of his face, and the remote expression he wears.

It’s so quiet and calm around him, nothing but the sound of the man’s tinkering to disturb the silence. He’s not quite at the state he’d call himself comfortable, but he can feel some of the tension in him slowly ebb away. As such, he’s not prepared for it when the man hunkers down on the opposite side of the pit and sets about lighting a fire.

It’s perhaps the closest they’ve been to one another. With his focus centred on his work it allows Grayson the chance to look him over, uninterrupted. His pale skin seems even more so, somehow, cast against the dark of his cloak. Deep lines carve across his forehead as he concentrates, evidence of years of solemn looks. Their presence makes him no less handsome. Smaller lines are littered around his mouth and chin, not wrinkles but scars, Grayson realises, and he very nearly leans forward to catch a better glimpse of them. It’s then that he glances at the man’s hands, busy striking flint to tinder. He thinks he sees a line of red there, just above the knuckles of one hand, but before he can look closer a spark catches, and that hand disappears from view.

It doesn’t take long for the stranger to build a fire, small but burning merrily away. He says nothing about it, even as he remains hunched there across from Grayson, his cloak wrapped around himself and his eyes on the flames. Considering how their association began, such an act from him feels deeply strange; with this silence between them, even more so.

Still. If he’s going to just sit there, Grayson might as well try his luck.

“How can you live in this place?” he asks. The man’s gaze snaps to him. “How has the Wolf not devoured you?”

There’s a long moment of silence as the man considers him. Then: “The Wolf and I … we have an understanding.”

“… An understanding.”

“I stay out of his way, and he leaves me in peace,” the man says. He shrugs, a slow, graceful motion.

Grayson looks at him in disbelief. Then he scoffs, and shakes his head.

Ridiculous. Utter nonsense. In what world could such a thing possibly be true?

He can feel the man watching him still, and it’s a struggle not to meet his eyes. On the deepest, most instinctual level he knows that if he does, he’ll find himself spitting forth those words already waiting on his tongue, and the last thing he needs right now is to insult the only other person he’s found. It’s all too easy, somehow, to imagine the derisive look on the man’s face.

So Grayson turns his curiosity elsewhere.

“How long have you been here?”

The man gives a quiet, thoughtful hum. “And here I thought you understood the value of discretion.”

Grayson frowns at that, glances over in exactly the way he told himself he wouldn’t. But the man has already turned away, his eyes on the forest and his face a blank canvas, void of all emotion. It’s not the response he’d been expecting; with that first answer still circling inside his head, it had seemed natural to presume he’d receive another. Only then does he remember their previous conversation, and his own reluctance to answer this stranger’s question.

He can’t quite find it in him to be frustrated, after that.

With the man currently the opposite of forthcoming and Grayson freed of all expectations, there’s little else for them but to settle into silence. All that breaks the quiet is the crackle of flame and the shifting of wood whenever the man tends the fire. On those occasions he swears he’s being watched, but every time he glances over, the man’s eyes are elsewhere. Neither comfortable nor fraught, Grayson takes this moment for nothing but what it is – a strange, brief opportunity to be warmed by a fire, to let his aching body rest, and to not need fear for his life.

By its very nature it cannot last. Grayson doesn’t know how long he sits there before he finally yields to the inevitable, stretching out his legs before he pushes himself to his feet. His back immediately makes its complaints known, and he can’t hide his flinch in time; not that it matters, what with how the man’s gaze is already locked on him. Grayson pretends not to notice. He gives himself a moment to look around, deciding on a direction – as though it even matters – before he moves to leave –

“You’re not still looking for that altar, surely.”

The comment is so unexpected he nearly stumbles that first step. He hesitates, his departure over even before it began. There’s a reluctance, then, to face the man again, one he can’t quite explain.

What should it matter, when he’s already shown him his back, and given the man plenty of time to look?

“You’re lucky to have escaped the first time. The Wolf won’t be so careless again.”

“What else is there?” Grayson asks, frustration getting the better of him as he half turns towards the fire. “That altar is the only reason I set foot in these woods.”

Eyes narrowing, the man says, “I told you already – if the forest doesn’t want you there, you won’t find it.”

“What does it mean that I keep finding my way here, then?” Grayson snaps.

Surprisingly, the man snorts.

“That the world has a poor sense of humour.”

* * *

By the time night falls Grayson’s already taken to heart the lessons learned from the previous evening, and has holed himself up in the safest place he could find. Between the overlap of two large, jutting rocks he hunkers down, blade in hand and eyes locked on the sliver of forest he can see before him. And there he waits, the sound of his heartbeat loud in his ears, his chest tight when he breathes in. It feels cowardly; a waste of time he should be taking advantage of. There’s no way of knowing how little he might have left.

But the mist is already swirling thick along the ground, and the cuts across his back are throbbing as strongly as they’d done when fresh. There’s no shame in strategic retreat, living to fight – or search – another day.

It’s as he’s telling himself this that he feels the ground shake. They’re only faint tremors – the source is some distance away, though how far he cannot tell – but it’s enough for him to know the Wolf is out there, hunting for him.

That night proves to be one of the longest he’s ever had the displeasure of sitting through, every minute spent waiting for the earth to shake anew or a great snout to appear, ready to eat him alive.

* * *

The man is in the midst of splitting logs when Grayson returns next. He’s discarded his cloak for the first time that Grayson’s seen; there’s a light sheen of sweat over his chest, muscles shifting and bulging with every swing. The sight stops him in his tracks. It feels like he’s intruding, somehow, seeing him like this; Grayson feels a rush of warmth through his veins, a flush of heat in his face. Before he can leave or turn away the man spots him.

The frown is entirely customary at this point. The man says nothing, however, only hefts the axe above his head and strikes again.

Grayson lingers around the edges of the camp at first, uncertain as to whether he should venture further in. But as the moments pass and there’s nothing but the rhythmic sound of the man’s hard work, he finds himself drifting nearer and nearer, until he’s hovering beside the firepit once again. And with no other distractions open to him, Grayson watches.

The man must be aware of his audience, surely, but he doesn’t shy away. The only times he pauses is to shift the hewn wood to one side, or to move unsplit logs towards the chopping block. At one point he carries over an armful of kindling, dumping it at the edge of the pit opposite Grayson, and as he straightens up Grayson finds his eyes are drawn.

The man’s pale skin is no longer a surprise to him, but to suddenly see so _much_ of it only reinforces just how fair he really is. Living a hermit’s life evidently hasn’t harmed him any; Grayson’s initial assessment of a strong, solid build is looking more correct with every passing second. But it’s the scars that catch his attention most, just as those near his mouth had done: some thin and silvery, others deep and gouging, they trail up his arms and across his chest and, indeed, over his back as he turns away.

There’d been a faint line of red along his abdomen, sign of a recent, healing wound. Grayson wonders how he got it.

It’s at the risk of overstepping his bounds, but with the man so deeply occupied there’s little in the way of options for him. And so Grayson starts to gather up all the bits and pieces he needs, and busies himself starting a fire.

It’s a mundane, simple task. It’s also the most he’s done with his hands since he first pushed his way through those trees. It feels good – better than he would’ve thought, just to be _doing_ something.

There’s only so much wood for the man to chop, and eventually the sound of the axe falling disappears entirely. Grayson’s coaxing a small flame to life when a shadow falls over him. He glances up, finds the man looming there. The scowl he wears is no surprise; his cloak is hanging about his shoulders again, drawn together, though not as tightly as it’d been the day before.

“I should have you do all the work, if you’re the one who’s to benefit from it,” the man muses.

Grayson doesn’t quite know what to say to that. So he says nothing, gestures towards the open space across from him instead. By the time he has the fire burning steadily the man has settled there, for all that he looks dissatisfied by the fact.

They sit in silence for a while, before Grayson’s had his fill of it.

“Tell me your name.”

The man’s eyes snap to his. “… What did you say?”

“Your name,” Grayson repeats. “Surely you have one. Tell me.”

“You’ve been perfectly content without it up until now.”

“I was also under the assumption I would have died before now.” He says it plainly, the statement of fact that it is. “Or, at least, I hadn’t thought I’d keep finding my way here. If this is to continue –”

“You have no way of knowing that.”

Grayson pauses. “You may be right. Though – I have a friend who would never forgive my rudeness were I not to ask, or offer my own in return.”

The man stares at him openly. “You truly don’t understand the nature of where you find yourself, do you.”

Grayson frowns. Shaking his head at his confusion, the man continues:

“Names have _power_. They are a piece of you; the last true thing one can call their own. Giving yours away – especially _willingly_ – grants power over you to those that hear you speak it.” The man watches him gravely. “You’ve already seen how this place can turn your senses against you; how it twists time and space itself. A man must hold to every advantage he has in these woods.”

Grayson takes in every word, the solemn tone they’re spoken in and the grim expression on the man’s face. “You truly believe this.”

“I know it to be true.”

Were this any other place, any other time, any other _man_ , he might make some comment about the absurdity of such a claim. There’s certainly a part of him that wants to, a quiet, doubting voice that creeps in, uninvited. But with all he’s witnessed over these past days, how could he ever presume to know what’s mere fantasy, and what’s real? The amount of time is uncertain, but this man has surely been here far longer than Grayson. Why wouldn’t he trust his word?

As Grayson ponders this in silence, the man nods to himself, seemingly satisfied with his response. He turns his attention away, back towards the trees –

“It need not be full names, then,” Grayson considers aloud, mostly to himself, and the man’s head snaps right back.

“… What?”

“Neither of us will have power over the other if we both offer something.”

“Were you not listening to a word –”

“Call me Gray,” Grayson declares, finally, and gives a sharp, decisive nod of his own.

The man is staring at him again, his mouth hanging half-open in sheer disbelief. It seems to take a moment for Grayson’s words to actually sink in, though it’s clear the instant they do. The man’s jaw snaps shut, and all that incredulity dries up in the span of a few heartbeats, replaced with something cold and furious instead.

Grayson says nothing. He can only hope he’ll get an answer, doesn’t know that he will until:

“Lucan,” the man bites out.

“Lucan,” Grayson echoes.

There’s no change in the man that he can see, no mystical shift in the air between them. Grayson certainly doesn’t feel any different. But he has a name to put to this stranger’s face, now, and Lucan has his.

“Oh,” he says, the thought escaping him before he can stop it, “ _Lucan_. Like the knight.”

Lucan arches one eyebrow slowly at him. The question is plain on his face, though he doesn’t voice it. Grayson raises his hands, sheepish.

“Ignore me. One of the elders of my village has an affinity for knightly tales. After listening to him for so long, their names are rather stuck in my head.”

“… I see.”

There are other questions to be asked, but he’s hesitant about rushing into them. Before he even has the chance to think on how to pose them Lucan is getting to his feet, that stormy look still on his face. Without another word to Grayson he disappears into his hut.

Grayson waits a long, long time for him to re-emerge. He never does.

* * *

He finds himself unwilling to stray too far from Lucan’s camp that night, even as he’s desperate to push onwards. Perhaps these small comforts are getting to him, wearing down the resolve he’d forged to come here in the first place. There’s a certain sense of security offered by the camp, if not the man who occupies it. If Lucan really has built some truce with the Wolf then maybe simply being near to it will offer Grayson some protection.

But then, maybe it won’t. He can only hope in that case his death doesn’t come at the cost of Lucan’s treaty. Or his home.

He’d set one last piece of wood upon the fire before he’d left. A backhanded sort of peace offering, remembering what Lucan had said about it, and one the man likely wouldn’t even see. The thought was there, nonetheless.

He’d tried to keep that clearing in sight somewhat, the flickering light of the flames or the shape of Lucan’s hut to guide him back if he needed. The thought that the woods could change their shape the moment his back was turned was one he fought not to entertain.

From where he now sits, one side pressed into the roots of a great tree, he can just barely see the orange glow off in the distance. That Lucan has kept the fire burning, at least for the time being, gives him confidence. He thinks he could find his way back, even should the light fade.

When he falls asleep that night, Grayson dreams.

It’s one of the strangest experiences of his life. He knows that he’s dreaming – there’s an awareness of his own body at the back of his mind, as though he could reach out with his senses and feel it slumped there. And yet everything around him feels _just_ real enough it almost makes him doubt. A light breeze sends a chill across his skin; fallen leaves shift and crackle beneath his boots. But his legs move independently of his mind, and he finds he can’t turn his head to look where he pleases.

There’s movement from the corner of his vision, a figure moving through the mist –

Not the Wolf, but that strange other creature he’d seen before. It stalks through the trees without a sound, steady, loping strides.

And Grayson follows after it.

He never gets close enough to see it as clearly as he’d like. Any time it seems like he might be getting nearer the thing passes behind a tree, and when it next appears has put some distance between them again. It’s a dark, tall shape that leads him on, seemingly unaware of his presence.

This is a dream, he tells himself, and if it isn’t –

Distantly, as though happening to someone else, a sense of unease churns low in his gut. It _must_ be a dream. The creature would have turned and noticed him by now otherwise, surely. For all his foolish choices, were this real he wouldn’t be following this strange thing willingly. But he still feels, however remotely, every press of his boots against the ground, and no matter how fiercely he tells himself to wake, his body fails to respond.

He’s safe if this is a dream. And if it isn’t –

Ahead of him, the creature comes to a stop. Grayson’s feet falter in response.

He’s still too far to see anything the way he wants to. Standing there, frozen in place, all he has to go on is an outline, bracketed by trees, that slowly turns towards him. Its arms are at its sides, fingers splayed; its shoulders heave with some unknown effort. Great fogs of breath drift up with every exhale, the only detail that the light catches.

Some remote part of him is aware of just how much danger he’s in, but Grayson still can’t move –

The creature _growls_ , a deep, rumbling sound he feels all through his chest, even at this distance. And then, from behind it, a pair of golden eyes flash at him. The form of the Great Wolf bleeds out of the darkness, towering over this other creature. It casts such a shadow that this thing Grayson had followed seems to disappear entirely.

And Grayson can’t move an inch. All he can hear is that growl, thrumming through his bones and catching with his heartbeat, and all he can see are those teeth, gleaming and sharp and coming closer and closer and _closer_.

* * *

Grayson wakes with a jolt, his chest heaving.

It takes a moment for his brain and his body to reconnect. He doesn’t know where he is at first, half caught in the memory of _dark_ and _cold_ and _teeth_ , but eventually the mess of green and brown around him resolves into something more familiar.

He’s exactly where he remembers settling down the night before. His pulse finally begins to slow with the realisation, though there’s another trailing closely after, growing stronger with every second of lucidity.

His back is alight with pain.

The wounds are throbbing as strongly now as they’d done when he’d first earned them. The sting had never really gone away; he’d simply grown used to it, or forced himself to ignore it. But he feels that pain again now, so clearly he couldn’t overlook it even if he’d wanted to. Grayson’s hand is beneath his shirt before he can think twice, reaching for the wounds. His fingers barely even brush the edges before pain lances through his back, sends him flinching away.

When he draws his hand back his fingers are bloody. But it’s not just his fingers, he realises with a start – the cut he’d made along the outside of his palm is slowly oozing blood as well. It looks as fresh as the night he’d first done it, twinges shooting through his fist as he clenches it.

He can’t fight off the shiver that creeps up his back then, an echo of the dread he remembers from his dream. Whatever new trickery of the forest this is, it’s the most unsettling yet.

He’s half expecting when he looks up to see either creature looming there, the safety he thought he’d found for himself nothing more than fantasy. But the trees are empty, the woods around him quiet, and still.

It’s nowhere near the comforting thought he wants it to be.

Pushing himself to his feet takes more effort than it really should. Grayson grits his teeth the entire time. His legs are moving even before he’s really thought about where he’s going, and for a moment he’s transported sharply back into that dreamscape. But his body responds as it should, and it doesn’t take long for him to recognise the direction he’s heading in.

There’s only one place his feet could be taking him, really.

He must look truly miserable, for Lucan’s customary frown seems to fade a little as Grayson lurches his way into the camp. He’s poised by the entrance to his hut, and says nothing as Grayson lowers himself gingerly to the edge of the firepit. Grayson can feel his eyes on him with every move he makes.

He acts as though he doesn’t notice. His focus is on the fire instead, already happily burning away.

It’s easy enough to let himself be distracted when he’s sitting alone. Warmth soaks into his skin, and he’s grateful for every second of it; it might not take away from the sting of his wounds, but it’s enough to just be _safe_. The chill of the evening is soon little more than a memory. That sense of calm only lasts until he realises Lucan has crept up on him, and now stands just out of arm’s reach.

Grayson flinches, regrets it immediately.

“Fucking – warn a man next time,” he snaps, shying back.

There’s no dry comment, no smirk at his expense. Lucan’s focus is locked instead on what he can see of Grayson’s back.

“Your wounds …”

It’s the closest to concern he thinks he’s heard from Lucan, the first that that serious expression of his has been turned in Grayson’s favour, rather than to spite him. It’s … surprising, though not necessarily an unwelcome one. He reaches back then, carefully, unable to help himself – but blood has glued his shirt to his back again, and he can’t ease it loose.

“I’m not sure they ever closed.”

Lucan frowns. “But the Wolf didn’t find you last night.”

Grayson shakes his head. How many times has Lucan felt the earth tremble as the Wolf’s gone padding by? He wonders. More often in these recent, endless days, surely. He’d be an old hand at recognising such things. Hopefully all that running for his life Grayson’s been doing hasn’t disturbed Lucan’s sleep too greatly.

The thought is so abrupt and ridiculous it makes him snort. Lucan cocks his head at him, one eyebrow arched sharply. Expectant.

He’d blame the pain for what he chooses to say next, but deep down he knows that’s not all there is.

“I realised something,” Grayson says, slowly. “I don’t know how I didn’t notice it sooner.”

“And that is?”

“In all the time I’ve been here, I haven't seen a single river, nor any animals. I’ve felt no hunger. No thirst. It’s been days.” He looks up at Lucan, searching his face. “How is that possible?”

Standing there, Lucan considers him. Grayson refuses to buckle beneath that look, holds his gaze and waits. Eventually Lucan’s mouth twists, an unhappy line, and he crosses to the opposite side of the fire.

Settling down, he says, “I wonder that you can still be surprised by these things. Nothing about these woods are what they seem.”

“Including those within it, or so it appears.” Grayson steels himself. “I don’t recall ever seeing you eat.”

Lucan says nothing. He only watches him from over the flames. Gold light washes over his face, turns his eyes into something liquid and glittering. It shouldn’t unsettle him the way it does; he can’t quite explain why, either. It’s something instinctual, a buzzing of his nerves warning him not to look away, not now.

How easily Lucan could refute his claim, but still he keeps his silence. It sends a chill up Grayson’s spine. And yet he finds himself leaning forward, curious.

“How long have you been here, Lucan?”

He gives an easy shrug. “Years. Decades.”

All that time …

Grayson can hardly fathom the idea. Myriad questions fill his mind, tripping over themselves almost before he can process them. What drew him here to begin with? How long was it before he forged his truce with the Great Wolf? How has he not been driven mad by the machinations of the woods? Did he simply grow used to them?

… Perhaps it’s not a question. Perhaps he _has_ been driven mad. Why else would someone choose to remain here, let alone admit to it so casually?

All these questions, and all Grayson can manage to ask is:

“How?”

Lucan arches an eyebrow. “What reason would I have to leave? The Wolf does not bother me as he does you, and I have no need of altars. This place is no threat to me.”

Grayson sits back heavily. His eyes find the fire as he finally looks away from the other man.

Whatever it was that motivated him, it sounds equally as though there’s nothing that could lure him out again. The thought is a sad one – that he could have no loved ones, no home to go back to – and he feels a rush of pity for him. Grayson’s sure such sentiment would not go appreciated, however, and so he does his best to keep it off his face.

He can still feel Lucan’s eyes on him, like a weight against his skin. He has to force himself to look up from the fire.

Lucan makes a thoughtful little humming sound as Grayson meets his gaze.

“And what foolish notion was it that brought you here in the first place?” he asks.

“… I seek the protection of my village.”

“And such a task is yours to perform?”

Grayson frowns at that. He can’t say he expected such questions; a comment about _discretion_ is already on his tongue, waiting to be let loose. But whatever has brought on this curious mood of Lucan’s, he doesn’t wish to spoil it. Rather than snarking back, he considers his answer.

“The leader of our village … I hesitate to name him, after your warning.”

“As you said, you need not tell me all of it,” Lucan says, giving another easy shrug.

Grayson thinks on it a moment. “Very well. Our leader, Augustus – he would consider every possibility save this. I couldn’t rightly leave the responsibility to someone else.”

Across the fire Lucan has gone still. If Grayson had thought before that his expression was fierce it’s nothing compared to what he sees now; there’s an intensity there that soars beyond uncomfortable. It’s enough to make him wonder what he might’ve said wrong. Lucan seems to catch himself before Grayson can ask, gaze shifting from him to some unknown point off in the distance.

“It’s a cruel world, that the choices of one could lead to such an outcome,” he says, voice low.

Now it’s Grayson’s turn to stare, and he does, perplexed. This is as much of a reaction as he’s seen from Lucan as that brief show of concern from earlier, and just as surprising. _Something_ has drawn that emotion out of him, though Grayson couldn’t say what. The temptation to ask is there, and if he thought he’d get an answer he just might have given in. As it stands, he files the moment away for further consideration.

He almost misses those surly frowns, those furtive silences.

The quiet that settles between them is as uncomfortable as it’s ever been.

“You’ve evaded the Wolf thus far. There’s still the chance you could find your way out,” Lucan states. There’s something strange about the way he sounds, though Grayson can’t quite explain it.

“I’d have thought you would know by now just how likely that would be.”

That brings a smirk to Lucan’s mouth.

“Stay here overnight, if you wish,” he says, rising easily to his feet.

He pauses then, staring down at him. For a moment it seems as though Lucan means to say something, and so Grayson sits there, looking right back at him. He waits, bearing that piercing gaze as best he can. Everything is still, as though the forest has come to a stop around them; Grayson hardly dares breathe, let alone move. But Lucan says nothing, only drags his eyes all the way up Grayson’s form. It’s slow, and thorough, and as he lingers on his face, Grayson feels a flood of heat well up beneath his skin, heart thudding heavily in his chest.

Lucan leaves him there like that, disappearing into his hut and with Grayson wondering what the hell just happened.

* * *

He stays. With the offer open to him and nowhere better to be, he’d be foolish not to. The hours pass slowly, and in silence; Lucan never re-emerges, even as the day grows later and later, and Grayson is loath to try to draw him out. When either his body or his mind protest too strongly his stagnation Grayson pushes himself up, ignoring the complaints of his back, and wanders around the camp. Not that there’s much to see; beyond the hut and the firepit Lucan hasn’t seen fit to carve out much of the rest of the woods for himself. But Grayson soon knows the state of all the tools he’s left sitting around, and the number of charms and trinkets he’s set about the place, little bits of carven wood and twigs twisted into shape, hanging from branches. They’re delicate things that speak to his skill with his hands. It’s a wonder he never noticed them before.

Perhaps he simply didn’t know to look for them.

He makes only a small dent in Lucan’s woodpile, keeping the fire burning low and steady through the hours. Maybe that’s another of the forest’s magics at work, he thinks with some grim amusement. Endless days, a lack of appetite, and more kindling than one could ever need.

When night falls without a glimpse of Lucan, Grayson feels the first stirrings of worry deep inside him. He finds himself eyeing the hut more frequently with every passing minute. It would be easy, to come to stand before the hut, tap along the outside or indeed, pull back the opening and peer in.

He settles as comfortably as he can beside the fire instead. The uneasiness that descends upon him then isn’t a mere physical thing, and nowhere near as easy to ignore.

It’s dark when he wakes. He blinks hard, trying to distinguish between the black behind his eyes and that which now surrounds him. He hadn’t expected to fall asleep, even as he’d attempted that very thing. Everything is quiet around him, and still; the forest hasn’t changed while he slept. The outlines of the camp are easy enough to discern.

The flames have burned themselves out.

Grayson’s in the middle of pushing himself up, set on lighting the fire anew, when he notices. The firepit has been swept entirely clean. There’s not a hint of ash or the charred bones of logs, the space so pristine it’s as though it’s only just been put together. When he’s finally on his feet he finds that endless woodpile of Lucan’s has disappeared entirely, as though it’d never even been there.

The silence around him no longer feels quite so harmless.

This is it, Grayson thinks to himself, heart picking up a rapid pace within his breast – this is the moment, he can no longer afford to wait, and he moves towards the hut. He makes it only a handful of steps before he feels the ground shake.

It’s distant still, though he thinks it might be coming closer. He’s not going to wait around to find out, or put his own safety above Lucan’s.

Grayson runs.

As though the entire forest has turned against him, he feels those trembles grow in strength mere seconds after he bolts. He grits his teeth but doesn’t stop, no thought for where he’s running or how far behind the Wolf might be. Even the pain of his wounds is far from his mind. There’s nothing in his ears but the pounding of his feet and the rush of air –

And then there’s an almighty crash from behind, the sound of splintering wood ripping through that silence. Grayson throws a look over his shoulder, eyes wild, expecting the great shadowy form of the Wolf to be hounding him down, trees knocked over in its wake. But he sees nothing. It’s not the relief he’d thought it would be, even less when he realises what could only have made that sound.

Lucan’s hut.

Did the Wolf just –

Grayson stumbles with the understanding, slows, stops. He feels sick with adrenaline and worry both, standing there, his chest heaving. It takes all he has in him to turn around, face down the direction of the noise.

Even if Lucan wasn’t in there – if his home is now gone because of Grayson …?

What a cruel twist of fate, that he would come here in the hopes of protecting his home only to destroy someone else’s.

He thinks of Lucan in that moment, the picture of him from their last conversation clear in Grayson’s mind. The intensity with which he’d stared; how the light of the fire had flooded his pale face with colour, and turned his eyes to something even more ferocious. He thinks of Lucan’s curiosity finally drawing to the surface, asking questions of Grayson and revealing something of himself in the process.

The ground shakes harder and harder with every passing second.

_And such a task is yours to perform?_

He sees the eyes first, shining in the dark like vast, golden beacons. Then the body of the Great Wolf melts out of the darkness, as though the trees are no obstacle for it at all, mere extensions of its own form. The beast growls, and Grayson feels it rattle all the way through him, as chilling now as the first time he heard it.

Everything in him is screaming for him to run, a refrain with every racing beat of his heart.

Grayson doesn’t move. Even as the Wolf leaps towards him, and the earth shudders like it’s about to open beneath him, Grayson doesn’t move. He has seconds at most before it’s upon him; each one feels like it stretches out for a lifetime.

And even as he himself shakes almost as strongly as the woods around him, Grayson holds himself in place. He doesn’t think about those monstrous teeth, not in his final moments. Instead he tries to picture Sebastien and Isabeau and Lafayette, their village – _his_ village. This is his task, this is what he came here for – and Augustus slips into his thoughts then, somehow; Lucan, too.

And then the Wolf is thundering to a stop before him. It doesn’t wait this time, just rears back, those massive jaws opening wide before descending –

Grayson squeezes his eyes shut, the only impression left to him the close, humid heat enveloping him –

But nothing more. That heat surrounds him for what feels like eternity before it pulls away, and Grayson heaves in a breath of cool, fresh air. Everything is dark when he squints one eye open. Only when he takes a staggering step back does he realise that darkness is the Wolf, still poised above him, teeth bared and eyes furious.

“ _RUN_.”

Grayson’s legs almost go out from under him. That voice – that voice had come from –

The Wolf snarls, and from this close it’s almost painful.

“ _RUN, DAMN YOU_.”

Grayson shakes his head. “No. No.”

His mind rails against the impossibility of it all. How can the Wolf be _speaking_? But there’s nowhere else that voice could be coming from. That snout doesn’t move except to growl or bare those teeth – instead, the words seem to rumble from deep out of the beast’s chest.

“ _RUN, YOU FOOL. HIDE. THINK ONLY OF YOUR OWN LIFE, AS ALL YOUR KIND DOES_.”

Grayson doesn’t run, doesn’t shrink back, even when the Wolf snaps its jaws at him. The beast begins to pace then, side to side, long strides that nearly throw him off-balance with every step. Such a thing should hardly be possible, and yet it’s as though the trees don’t even get in its way. Perhaps they moved even without the mist?

Looking on in that moment, Grayson wonders if the Wolf looks … smaller, somehow.

“I’m not leaving –”

This time he does flinch back, the Wolf’s fangs snapping shut so close to his face he feels the rush of air as they miss. Dread fills him so fully and completely he can hardly breathe through it. His body roils hot and cold all over, and even as he so desperately wants to listen to the Wolf, still Grayson holds himself in place. He’s almost certain of it now – the shape of the beast is no longer quite so defined, shifting and fading in places, blown away like clouds on a windy day.

He doesn’t know what strange trickery this is. Some magic of the woods – or the Wolf, meant to make him doubt. There’s some part of him that does, however small it may be, as the silhouette declines before his eyes; wonders if this storied creature he sought out was never more than a trick of the mind.

The fear as he’d been chased and the wounds across his back are enough to convince him handily it’s not that simple.

There’s a shape there, within the churning dark, becoming more and more defined with every passing second. Grayson can’t tear his eyes away.

Swallowing hard, he says, “I made an offering –”

“Damn your offering!”

With one last flash of eyes the Wolf fades into nothingness. From out of its shadow steps another form – that of the second creature.

Just as it was in his dream.

“You,” Grayson says, breathless.

He has only a handful of seconds to look over this creature in full, taking in the sight of it in a way he’s been unable to before. It’s just as imposing up close as it’d been from a distance, easily towering more than a head over him. His mind can’t quite make sense of what’s before him: a build that’s more man than wolf, but still not _human_ ; the dark hair that covers its body, but can’t hide that body’s obvious strength; the claws that tip its fingers, and the mouth full of jagged teeth.

But those eyes … those black and golden eyes are the same.

All these things Grayson notices moments before a hand snaps out, catching him by the throat. He jerks back, can’t help it; it helps him none. The Wolf’s grip on him is strong – not so much that he’ll choke, but enough that he can’t move or breathe comfortably. Grayson has the sudden, distinct impression that the Wolf could lift him off his feet and leave him dangling without much effort at all, and it sends a shudder up his spine.

His hands have latched around the Wolf’s wrist without him even realising. It won’t do much to deter the beast, but it’s _something_.

The Wolf snarls at him. “Are you truly so eager to die?”

Breath washes hot against Grayson’s face. All this time he’s been thinking of the Wolf as _it_ , but there’s something undeniably masculine about that voice, even the shape of the Wolf’s face.

… something _familiar_ about that voice, beneath the growl that shapes it, though Grayson can’t say what.

And still he hangs in the Wolf’s grasp, that hand clenched around his throat. Not choking him, nor piercing his neck with those claws. Just … holding him in place, in that firm and steady grip.

Grayson’s almost too afraid to blink, staring into those furious golden eyes, waiting for what can only be the inevitable.

The moment doesn’t come.

“Why won’t you do it?” Grayson asks, his voice ragged.

The Wolf sneers. His grip tightens, just enough to make his point. Then he lets go, shoving Grayson back as he does so, with such force it nearly sends him stumbling.

“Go back to your precious village,” he snarls, glaring down at him.

And Grayson’s left to look on, baffled, as the Wolf turns and storms back into the woods, disappearing amongst the trees within seconds.

* * *

Grayson wakes up.

The sun is shining bright and clear, even through the trees. Quiet sounds of life reach his ears, welcome him back to awareness – the rustling of the leaves above him, the distant chirps of unseen birds. He breathes in, and it’s as though a weight has been eased off his chest.

There’s pressure at his back, unrelenting in a way the earth has never been.

Grayson’s pushing himself up without a second’s hesitation, suspicions already springing to life inside his mind, but he knows, the moment his fingers touch stone – he’s on the altar. White stone stares up at him, utterly immaculate. It somehow manages to look just as bright and pristine in the daylight as it did that very first evening. Its otherworldliness is no less diminished, either.

It should no longer come as a surprise to him, waking in a place entirely different to where he fell asleep. Even that much is no longer strange. He remembers standing exactly where the Wolf had left him, waiting for him to change his mind and come back to end things as he should have. Evidently no such thing had happened, and exhaustion had won out, dangerous though it had been.

The woods have played more than their fair share of tricks on him. But to wake _here_? When he’s spent so long trying to find it himself?

It’s one of the most apt things he can imagine, in all honesty.

Only now that he’s standing does Grayson realise how easily he’d moved. The pain of his wounds has vanished entirely.

He reaches back below his shirt, trying for cautious but failing under his own urgency. His fingers brush over the cuts, already poised to flinch – but rather than open wounds he finds scar tissue instead. The skin is tender to the touch, the raised edges easy to map. Only the knowledge of how painful they’d been mere hours ago keeps him from relief.

His hand, too – the line he’d sliced along his hand has healed, naught but a silvery scar left to suggest it’d ever happened.

Grayson looks around himself. There’s a strange sense of certainty he feels in that moment, an instinct not his own but one he understands intimately. He could leave, right now. Whatever spell of the woods kept him wandering aimlessly has broken, and by the Wolf’s own words his offering means nothing; Grayson could pick any direction and start walking, and know it’s only a matter of time before the forest leads him out. What such a thing would mean for his village, he doesn’t know.

But as strongly as it pulls at him, Grayson finds himself glancing back, deeper into the woods instead.

What about Lucan?

He hasn’t forgotten that horrible sound of splintering wood. The wondering would keep him up at night if he simply left now; he’d never forgive himself for not doing at least this much. And if it’s somehow worse than what he’s anticipating?

… He’ll deal with that when he comes to it.

There’s no sense of foreboding as he heads back the way he thinks leads to Lucan’s camp. He has no real way of knowing, no signs or markers to guide him. Nor can he trust that the forest, suddenly so accommodating, won’t simply twist his path before his eyes and lead him out without him realising.

All he has is his instinct, a pull he feels like a hook lodged in his sternum, drawing him forward.

So much of the woods is unknown to him, its changeable nature only making it more so. And yet it feels as though he’s seeing these trees for the first time. It’s not simply that they’re new to him. Like a veil that’s been lifted, the forest no longer seems so claustrophobic; shadows don’t loom quite as large, colours far more vibrant; the air is light and clear.

If he never sees a hint of mist again it’ll be too soon.

There’s not a thought in Grayson’s head as to how long he’s been walking. There’s only his determination, and the inexplicable pull leading him onwards.

He very nearly trips his way into the campground, quite literally stumbling upon it. The sight that greets him is a grim one. It looks like a storm has rolled through the place – which, in a way, he supposes is correct. At least one tree has been knocked over; the earth is carved through with great furrows, disturbed and uneven. Most upsetting, however, is the hut. One side has caved in completely, the roof sagging along towards the ruined section. It’s a wonder the entire thing hasn’t come down. Snapped sticks and longer, broken pieces of wood are scattered around the outside of the hut. Some reach almost as far as the other side of the camp.

There isn’t a hint of Lucan to be found.

Grayson can feel his heart beating harder and harder with every step he takes further into the clearing. It’s so quiet he can hear nothing else. He can’t take his eyes from the hut; as nervous as he is to see inside it, he can’t stop himself from moving closer.

He’s not sure he wants to look.

The choice isn’t his to make, in the end. Only a few paces from the hut there’s movement at the entrance, and a moment later Lucan pushes his way out.

Grayson staggers to a halt. The relief he feels then could punch its way out of his chest it’s so strong.

Lucan must hear him, his head snapping in Grayson’s direction. The frown that had already been on his face – the frown that Grayson knows so well – only seems to deepen. Grayson pays it as much mind as he ever has, too busy looking him over. No blood, no scrapes that he can see.

“Lucan,” he says, exhaling hard, “you’re alright.”

“So it would seem.”

They stand there, Lucan eyeing him a moment longer before he turns away. There’s something … almost dismissive, about the way he looks then, Grayson thinks, though he can’t imagine what would’ve caused it. What little he can claim to know of Lucan extends no further than his taciturn nature; such a reaction is entirely in character.

And yet, after the tone of their last conversation, Grayson can’t pretend he isn’t disappointed.

“I heard the crash,” he ventures, “I thought – but you’re unharmed.”

Lucan pays him no mind. He goes about his work instead, gathering up the broken pieces of his hut. There’s a small pile already amassed off to one side, and with every split of wood he dumps on top Grayson feels his insides twist with guilt. Some of the charms and carvings have been knocked loose, and now lie at the bottom of their respective trees, or in amongst the pile.

It could be so much worse, Grayson tells himself. The hut could have been lost entirely; Lucan could have been inside, lying injured or dead, instead of standing here as he is now. He’s glad that’s not the case, more than he can put into words. There’s something incredibly upsetting about the sight of the camp like this, however, a place that’s been of such unexpected comfort to him brought to near ruin. Grayson feels the loss of it as though were his own.

“I’m sorry about your hut.”

“Why are you here, Gray?”

Grayson nearly jolts at the question. “What?”

Lucan gives no response. His expression says more than enough as he finally turns to face him again. Expectant, and hard; there’s no friendship in that look, only the demand for an answer.

And Grayson doesn’t quite know what Lucan wants from him, but he has to say _something_.

“I said, I heard the tree come down. I thought you might have been injured, so I came back to check on you.”

Lucan stares at him. Then he shakes his head. “You are the most relentless man I’ve met. Or the most foolish.”

“… I don’t understand.”

“Playing coy doesn’t suit you,” he spits. “The Wolf rejected you and your offering. You’re free to leave the woods. So why are you still here?”

Grayson’s mouth hangs open. He catches himself a moment later. The harshness of Lucan’s voice feels no less diminished even as the shock of it wears off, and still Grayson doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say.

Riding on the heels of that confusion is a prickle of irritation he can’t quite force down.

“I hadn’t realised my concern would be so unwelcome,” he grits out.

Lucan throws his arms wide, his cloak whirling about his sides. “Look your fill, if you imagine me in such a poor state.”

Standing as he is, cloak only just perched upon his shoulders, it gives Grayson clear view of his body. His earlier observation proves to be correct – no fresh wounds mar Lucan’s skin. Only the shadows of old hurts remain. The ease with which he holds himself suggests he isn’t hiding some other injury or malady. For all intents and purposes, it seems as though Lucan is in perfect health.

This close, Grayson can see the thin line across his abdomen that he’d noticed a little while ago. It’s little more than a silvery scar at this point, barely visible against his pale skin. It seems strange that it could have healed so quickly, so completely. But then, he’s seen on more than one occasion how time twists and shifts in upon itself in this place.

Grayson looks at that scar, frowning. Something about the sight of it sticks weirdly in his mind, but he can’t put his finger on what.

Lucan drops his arms back to his sides.

“Now, if your fears are allayed, I have work that needs doing,” he snaps. “Leave me in peace.”

He turns away, not bothering to wait to see if his words are heeded. And Grayson can only stand there, staring at him.

It’s as though they’re back to that very first day – or worse even, going backwards somehow, with this icy reception. That Lucan would bear him some ill will is no surprise. The state of his camp, after all, can be linked almost directly to Grayson. And yet, such complaints hadn’t been a feature of his anger. He’d seemed more frustrated that Grayson had come back to check on him, that he hadn’t left.

… And how had he known what had transpired between him and the Wolf?

Grayson frowns. Now that the thought is in his head he can’t shake it loose, and he eyes Lucan closely. The more he watches, the more he wonders.

Lucan’s caginess could be attributed of any number of things, but what has always been clear is his knowledge of these woods, and the Wolf. Knowledge, too, of Grayson’s encounters with the beast, that he couldn’t possibly have had with any certainty. At the time Grayson had chalked it up to his familiarity with this place; later, the length he’d admitted to having lived within. But now, in the light of the new thought slowly swimming round his head …

The truce, impossible as it had seemed, suddenly makes much more sense.

Grayson feels every beat of his heart pound through his chest as he stares at Lucan.

The colour of his cloak matches almost perfectly with the colour of the Wolf’s coat. That faded scar across his chest – even the cut Grayson had thought he’d seen across his fingers – correspond to wounds dealt by Grayson’s own hand.

Has it really been in front of him all this time?

It’s an impossible, fantastical thought. And yet, this place has shown him time and again more is possible than he could ever have imagined.

“You – you’re the Great Wolf,” he says, near breathless.

And Lucan –

Lucan doesn’t even look up.

“Marvellous observation,” he snaps. “However did you come to such a conclusion?”

Grayson feels as though he’s been struck. If this is misdirection on Lucan’s part, it’s the driest, most blatantly sarcastic delivery he’s ever heard from someone. Same as the instinct that helped lead him here, however, Grayson has the sense that Lucan isn’t actually trying to deceive him.

Mocking him, certainly. But not denying the charge.

He’s the Wolf.

There isn’t the anger he would’ve expected from Lucan upon being discovered. Grayson’s more than familiar with _that_. The more he thinks on it, the more he recognises the similarity of their voices. The Wolf’s had been deeper, of course, distorted by a growl that had nearly masked it entirely. But the cadence is the same, Lucan’s deliberate way of speaking buried beneath it all – not deeply enough. The anger, too, that cold fury he’d heard from the Wolf the same as when Lucan had given up his name, when he’d commented on the cruelty of Grayson’s self-appointed task –

And just like that, the thoughts align in Grayson’s head, clicking into a circuit he can’t look away from. A flood of cold washes over him, head to toe.

“But there’s more, isn’t there?” he asks.

This man, wandering around with the name that he is – the name of a _knight_ , and how still he’d gone when Grayson had identified Augustus as the leader of the village.

Do the ages even match? Grayson can’t tell for looking at him. Both he and Lucan could be alike in age, though there’s a weariness the other man regards the world with that makes him seem much older. Lucan had said he’d been here decades, which could fit with what Grayson knows. Or perhaps, with how time moves in this place, it really has been longer than it seems.

The man can turn into a wolf; that he might age differently should hardly be outside the realm of possibility.

It feels tenuous even as he thinks it. But the more he stares, the more that shadowy form of a boy that’d haunted Grayson’s thoughts when he was younger resolves itself into Lucan.

And once the picture is in his head, he finds he can’t remove it.

“You’re Augustus’s lost son,” he says. “Alastair d’Argyll.”

The world has gone utterly silent, narrowed down to nothing but the two of them. Across the camp Lucan has gone still. Then, slowly, he looks over at Grayson.

The expression he wears defies all description. They stare at each other, and it’s as though time has stopped around them. Grayson can’t speak, afraid of what might come out should he open his mouth – but neither does Lucan say anything, and with every passing second the silence only feels more damning.

“You’re alive,” Grayson finally gets out, voice quiet and awed. “God above, your father – he’ll be overjoyed. They all will.”

Face twisting, Lucan – no, not Lucan, _Alastair_ – turns away, throwing himself back into his work. The thought that a denial might still be coming is fading fast; Grayson’s mind races from one idea to the next, heart pounding now with excitement. So exhilarated is he that he hardly notices the stiff, tense way the other man stalks across the camp.

Grayson rambles, “You have a sister – can you imagine? She’s wondered for so long about you. She’ll be thrilled –”

Alastair scoffs. The sound immediately puts a halt to Grayson’s musings, his good mood fading in a matter of seconds.

“How little you understand,” Alastair says, dumping his current armful. He turns to look at Grayson, and his eyes are flinty. “I’m not leaving these woods.”

“But –”

Grayson’s words fail him, a senseless noise of protest escaping his mouth before even that falls away. It’s … incomprehensible to him, so much so he thinks he must have misheard. Nothing about the way Alastair is watching him suggests he’s even remotely close to joking, and realisation dawns upon him, creeping and slow.

Alastair means what he said.

And still Grayson cannot comprehend _why_.

Some of that realisation must show on his face, for Alastair’s expression only grows more resolved. He glances him up and down, as dismissive a gesture as he’s ever given.

“Leave, Gray, before my patience wears thin.”

And Grayson finds his confusion turns instead to anger.

“No.”

Alastair, already half turned away, cocks an eyebrow sharply at him. Grayson stands his ground, stares him down.

“You’re right – I don’t understand. You have a home, a family, waiting for you. What possible reason could you have to refuse that?”

“Wolves and men ought never mix,” Alastair says, voice dripping scorn. “Humanity’s treachery needs no encouraging.”

Grayson shakes his head, hearing the answer but not really _listening_ to it. His mind is too preoccupied with thoughts of his own, desperately trying to find a solution to a problem he can’t fathom the existence of. There must be _something_ , some reason he’s keeping to himself as to why.

The picture that comes to Grayson then is that of a younger Alastair, that fateful day he’d disappeared from the village. The story had always been a troubling one. Now it feels even more sinister.

Lured into the woods, not to be devoured but to be _trapped_ , all the years spent at the mercy of the forest’s magic twisting him into something else entirely. It’s enough to make his insides churn, unease turning just as quickly to righteous anger.

“It’s the power of this place.” Grayson nods to himself, convinced. “You’ve been enchanted. Cursed. But surely it can be broken –”

“ _Cursed_? I was _born_ to this,” Alastair snarls, and as he does his face darkens and shifts, a hint of the beast within.

Grayson stares, frozen in place as Alastair stalks a slow circle around him. Every step promises danger; his shadow seems to lengthen behind him, the darkness thicker and more tangible with each passing second. By the time Grayson’s instincts recover enough for him to _move_ he can only stagger back a step or two, and for all that they’re of a height Alastair fairly _looms_ over him then, less than an arm’s reach between them.

“My parents were wolves. They guarded these woods before me, and then one day Augustus d’Argyll and his men pushed through the trees and _butchered_ them.”

Alastair’s hand snaps out, faster than Grayson can see, catching in his shirt and curling tightly. Grayson flinches, as much at the words as the grip now holding him fast, threatening to reel him in. But Alastair only bares his teeth at him, the barest hint of sharpness at their tips.

“Well, Gray? Still so sure of yourself?”

Grayson swallows hard, throat gone dry. He feels cold all over, all his certainty wiped clear away in an instant.

“But you – why would he take you?”

Alastair’s eyes narrow. “He only saw me as an infant. Perhaps he thought it a kindness when he took me from the slaughter. Took from me my _name_ –”

His grip tightens then, so much so it jerks Grayson closer and in on himself. He just barely keeps his noise of surprise inside as he suddenly finds himself well within Alastair’s space, his only choice to move with the pull or fall over. This close, he can feel the heat of Alastair’s body, his _anger_ , rolling off him in waves; his breath puffs hot against Grayson’s cheeks, there and gone. Grayson’s heart is pounding, a fast and hard _thump_ that reaches all through his chest. He only just manages not to settle a hand on Alastair’s arm, or his side, easy as it would be to balance himself thus.

And then Alastair lets him go, shoves him back with enough force it nearly sends him tipping over the _other_ way instead.

Grayson staggers, trying to find his feet. By the time he does there’s space between them again. Alastair is glaring at him, a cold and furious look, and his hands are clenched at his sides.

“He claimed me as his own, and even I believed it. Then the day came that I realised what I was, what he’d _done_.” Alastair’s shoulders are tense, the muscles of his arms bulging; the promise of his strength, just barely restrained. “That I let him live is a greater mercy than he deserved,” he snarls.

Grayson can only stand there, almost afraid to breathe, let alone move. Before, his mind had been moving faster than he could account for, eager to solve the puzzle, so certain that he could. Now, though? Now it feels as though everything has crawled to a standstill, and he’s left adrift in his own uncertainty.

Alastair seems to have regained control of his fury. He no longer breathes quite so harshly, the taut line of his body not as close to snapping; his shadow sticks to his heels, as it should. With this return to composure comes a change in expression, though the sight is an all too familiar one. Cold, closed off, and only steps away from hostile.

“And now you know the truth. Go back your village. Help keep Augustus’s lie alive.” His eyes flick Grayson up and down, gaze stony as his voice. “Don’t make me tell you again.”

There’s a finality to it when he turns away this time, a dismissal so plain Grayson couldn’t even pretend to interpret it any other way. He could try; temptation wavers in his chest like a flame, tiny and only just clinging to life. He’s never been one to give up without a fight. But Alastair has gone back to clearing the debris from around his home – destruction wrought by _Alastair’s own hands_ , he realises, god damn it all – and he seems more determined than ever to ignore Grayson’s presence.

And maybe it’s the utter shock of Alastair’s confession finally settling upon him in earnest, or maybe he’s just worn down, but Grayson feels that flicker in his chest sputter out. Alastair pays him no mind as Grayson leaves the camp behind, one last glance cast back at the Great Wolf before he disappears from view.

* * *

He’s expecting something … _more_ , he thinks, as he slowly makes his way through the trees. One could be forgiven for believing they’d somehow wandered into an entirely separate forest, such is the difference in atmosphere he now feels. Whatever magic had surrounded him seems to have faded completely – even the pull that had led him back to Alastair is gone.

That realisation in particular unsettles him deeply. After this latest – and most final – dismissal, Grayson can’t imagine having reason to return. Nor does he believe Alastair would be especially pleased to see him again. But the thought that he might never find his way back to that clearing …

Grayson frowns, at himself, and the quiet all around him, and everything.

He wonders if he’ll even notice when he steps through that strange barrier.

It feels like an age has passed since he first forged his path through these woods. Perhaps it has, in some weird way. Regardless, he can’t remember how long it had taken him to finally push through and find the altar. He can’t rightly say whether this is taking any longer than that initial venture, only that the light is turning ever more golden, and the shadows growing longer, and he still can’t see where the trees thin closest to their border.

It’s only a matter of time until he finds his way out. Time, and his own stubbornness, is all it ever comes down to.

Has his home been given up to one of the other villagers? One of the young men on the cusp of adulthood? Perhaps they’ve repurposed it entirely, transformed it into another little storehouse for their food, or tools, or any number of things. He’d like to think his friends and neighbours wouldn’t be so quick to cut away their reminders of him, even if he doesn’t truly know how long it’s been since he went away. Sebastien would hold out hope for him. Isabeau, too. No matter how bleak the situation; no matter who they had to stand against.

God, he misses them. There’s a fierce ache in his chest at the thought of seeing them again, so strong he’s nearly left breathless with it. He can’t even _begin_ to imagine how he’ll explain all this to them –

The thought stops him dead in his tracks. Guilt drips through his veins like poison, gradual and creeping, until he can no longer ignore it. Slowly, he looks back the way he came.

He can’t _leave_. How can he, when he’s the only one who knows Alastair is here? When he knows the truth? Augustus had gone searching for him, all those years ago: whether out of fear of losing more men, or shame of his own actions being discovered, the task had gone unfinished. In all his years Grayson heard no mention of a second expedition. Alastair had been left to become nothing more than a memory; a name whispered in hushed tones, or not at all.

How can he go back to his old life knowing what he does? Pretending that nothing has changed?

He would be no better than Augustus, should he choose to leave now.

Grayson brings his gaze forward, imagines he can see the village off in the distance: the familiar shapes of the buildings, the long stretches of fields. They’ve surely completed the harvest by now. He hopes it went better than they were expecting.

“Forgive me, my friends,” he says. “This is something I can’t turn away from.”

In his mind’s eye he pictures Alastair, a proud and furious look cast upon his handsome face. He imagines his features lit by the warm glow of the fire; his eyes had seemed impossibly dark, drawing him in. He thinks about Alastair’s shadow shifting behind him, and how effortlessly he’d called forth that other part of himself.

He thinks about Alastair’s hand curled in his shirt, pulling him in close. Thinks about the heat of his body, and how fast his own heart had beaten in that moment.

Perhaps there’s still a chance for him to die for his village, he thinks with some dark amusement, and heads back into the forest.

* * *

It doesn’t take long at all after that for night to settle over him. Grayson catches the briefest glimpses of stars as he moves through the trees, the easy curve of the moon; the darkness doesn’t bother him, deep though it is. He walks with purpose, strides careful but sure. There’s no sense drawing him forward this time, mystical or otherwise, but neither is the forest trying to trip him up. He can only hope that’s a good sign.

Best he doesn’t go and send himself falling over some rogue branch and ruin the whole thing.

He keeps his eyes peeled for any sign of light, a hint of anything that could be a campfire. Grayson has his doubts that Alastair would be so helpful, even unknowingly. He thinks he wouldn’t mind a little assistance, mystical or otherwise.

In the end he very nearly stumbles into the campground, quite literally. With half the hut fallen in on itself he misses its silhouette amongst the trees, enough debris still on the ground to make anyone unsteady; he almost trips over a stray branch when he realises where he is, that he’s _found it_. Grayson hesitates a moment there, feels his heart thump away heavily against his breast.

There’s a light within the hut, flicking and dim but _there_ , creeping through the cracks and broken wood. He’s moving before he can think twice, drawn forward slowly, moth to flame. His hand stills as he reaches for the flap at the entrance, the final barrier before him.

So many times he’s wondered what might lie within. And now …

Grayson draws the flap back and slips inside.

Alastair stands there, faced away from him. He’s without his cloak, the pale skin of his back cast in gold and shadows from a small fire burning in a hearth near the centre of the room. Or, what _would_ be the centre of the room – only a handful of steps away the wreckage begins, roof caving in and walls not much better. It’s frankly a miracle he can’t see through to the forest. Or that the rest of the hut hasn’t collapsed.

The hut seems larger than it had appeared from outside, even half ruined. It’s sparse inside, even more so than Grayson would have anticipated. There are furs piled against the ground in one spot not too far from the door, a small wooden table and matching stool standing opposite. It’s here that Alastair’s cloak rests, half dangling off one edge – the one significant, personal touch he can see.

Simple, plain, but no less a home than Grayson’s.

In the few short moments it takes him to catalogue all this Alastair only stands there. Grayson is certain his presence has been noticed. Alastair will have heard him – or perhaps one of his wolf instincts will have caught wind of him, even before he stepped inside. Grayson says nothing, the rapid beating of his heart surely speaking loudly enough for both of them.

And then:

“I told you to leave.”

Grayson nearly breathes a sigh of relief.

“I’ve never been one to blindly follow orders,” he says, lightly as he can.

“Why am I not surprised.”

Alastair’s shoulders twitch, as though he’d meant to move but held himself back instead. And still, he just … stands there. Facing away from him, and unwilling as he is to disturb the scene Grayson finds himself taking a careful step around, enough that he can see Alastair in profile.

“Why are you here, Gray?”

It’s the same question as before, only now there’s such an undercurrent of _exhaustion_ there Grayson feels it like a blow to the chest. Alastair’s face is a mask, the smallest hint of a frown between his eyebrows his only expression. The light from the fire catches in his eyes, turns them to something liquid, glinting. Grayson had thought, in the past, that there was something regal about his appearance. He finds himself having that same thought again now, tracing down the sharp line of his nose, the furrows along his brow, the downturn of his mouth. Solemn, and remote. But Grayson’s seen the other sides of him, the furious anger and the pointed humour, the intensity and the brief, brief flashes of concern – so much more than this façade he wishes to put forth.

Handsome, Grayson thinks, and with a rush of warmth understands it isn’t just some arbitrary thought. He really does think Alastair handsome.

“Well?”

Grayson swallows hard, his throat gone dry.

“I can’t just leave you out here,” he finally gets out.

The stillness breaks with that, Alastair’s body turning, head snapping in his direction. Those sharp eyes of his narrow.

“What?”

Grayson’s heart is truly pounding now, so hard he swears it could beat right out of his chest.

“You’ve been alone in these woods for god knows how long,” he starts, an urgency he can’t ignore rising inside him, “and you have your reasons, but – you don’t _have_ to be.”

Alastair sneers at him. “You would have to drag me from this place, Gray, and I can assure you that won’t happen. I won’t leave. Not for you, and certainly not for him.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He has the perfect view of it as Alastair’s frown deepens, not out of anger but confusion, eyebrows pulling together as he picks apart Grayson’s meaning. The seconds feel like they stretch out for eternity as they both stand there. And then – understanding, anger bleeding from Alastair’s face and a careful blankness settling there instead. In that moment Grayson feels the weight of exactly what it is he’s offering, but as nervous as it leaves him – there’s a thrill of excitement, too.

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting from Alastair. Has his hopes as to how he might react, tenuous as that hope may be. Only, Alastair’s expression – that vacant look is turning before Grayson’s eyes to something cold, something hard.

“I have no need of your pity,” Alastair spits, and goes to shoulder past him.

“It isn’t pity –”

Grayson grabs for his arm as he passes, fingers curling around warm skin and corded muscle, and it’s to both their surprise that Alastair actually _stops_. Alastair doesn’t look at him, doesn’t pull his arm loose, easily as he could. It hasn’t been so long since they last stood this close; the circumstances may be different, but Grayson feels no more in control than he had then. Alastair’s strength is plain beneath his hand, tension thrumming through his arm. He realises, in that moment, that this is the first he’s laid even a finger on Alastair, the first touch between them that hasn’t had a threat following on its heels.

And Grayson isn’t thinking about the village or its plight, the reason he came here and made his offering; isn’t thinking about Augustus, or Isabeau, or Sebastien. All he’s thinking about is this man before him, tired and angry and _alone_.

Slowly, he eases his grip, lets his hand fall away.

“It isn’t pity,” he says, and his voice is raw.

Alastair doesn’t move away like he’s expecting. Instead he draws in a deep, slow breath, holds it, lets it out again. This close, Grayson can hear the quiet, shuddery sound it makes as he exhales.

“You can’t understand what it is you’re offering,” Alastair says.

His face is grim, unhappy lines drawn deep. The sight should trouble him, but there’s something close to giddy bubbling up inside Grayson, a feeling he recognises but is hesitant to name – _hope_.

Alastair hasn’t refused him completely, hasn’t turned against him or thrown him out.

“You don’t have my full name,” Grayson urges him, “and even if you did, I don’t believe in such things.”

Alastair finally, _finally_ looks at him then, gaze darkening, and for a moment Grayson is intimately aware of the danger he’s in. But only for a moment. The thought is swept away with the sound of his pulse in his ears. Alastair is watching him with intent now, slowly turning to face him fully. His eyes seem almost entirely black, a trick of the low light or something else; even as Grayson watches him, Alastair’s focus drifts down to his mouth, lingering there. Grayson feels himself flush under the attention, even as those eyes wander back up to meet his.

“The single most reckless human I’ve ever met,” Alastair says.

And Grayson would normally have some witty line near to hand, something to ease the tension of the moment, but his mind has gone utterly blank, and there’s hardly any space between them as it is but Alastair is advancing on him, and Grayson has no choice but to move backwards in response. Careful steps, so his boots don’t catch on the furs; he feels them beneath his soles, plush and sinking. Before he can even think how surely he must be running out of space his back is against the wall.

He barely feels the scratch of the branches at his back; the thought of another wall collapsing flickers through his mind, there and gone. All that’s left in his head is Alastair, the heat of him standing so close and the wet shine of his mouth, lips parted ever so slightly. Grayson is pinned in place without a hint of contact between them. It’s some kind of miracle his legs have stayed under him, even more so considering he can hardly feel them –

Alastair plants one hand beside his head and leans in, so close but still not touching. He dips his head, and Grayson feels the lightest brush of his hair against his cheek, a trail of heat down the side of his neck as Alastair breathes against him, breathes him _in_.

“Run now and I won’t chase you down,” Alastair says, voice low against his ear.

Grayson can only groan at that, his head thunking back against the wall. It feels like his heart might just beat out of his chest; he isn’t even thinking about how vulnerable the move leaves him. Not until Alastair leans in again, and starts tracing his lips along Grayson’s throat.

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands all of a sudden. One he brings to the back of Alastair’s neck; the other he blindly reaches forward, fingers twitching against Alastair’s side before he settles them there – god, his skin is _so hot_ , even without his cloak on, how is that possible? With his head still thrown back the only sense he has of Alastair’s approval is the sound he makes, a rumble Grayson feels all the way through him.

Alastair seems to mirror him, one hand curling around Grayson’s hip, the other laid upon his chest, over his heart. That faint press of lips turns then to something more, teeth scraping across his throat; the wet warmth of Alastair’s mouth follows after as he tastes Grayson’s skin in earnest. It feels easy, in that moment, for him to slide his fingers up into Alastair’s hair and curl them into the strands, tugging gently. Alastair makes a pleased noise, and it sends a spike of heat straight down Grayson’s spine.

That sweet pressure against his neck disappears. There’s a hand cupping his jaw then, gently urging his face down, and Alastair’s face is all he sees. They’ve never been so close; Alastair’s eyes are so, so dark, and he’s breathing hard, and as easy as it would be for him to close that distance, he holds himself in place instead.

Waiting for _him_.

Grayson swallows hard.

It’s like time slows to a crawl, somehow, as he sways forward, gaze drifting to Alastair’s mouth, closer and closer –

Alastair leans in to meet him that last fraction, and Grayson lets his eyes shut.

It’s gentle at first, the barest press of lips against his own; he almost opens his eyes again just to be certain this isn’t some wild hallucination. But Alastair’s touch is light against his jaw, tilting his face just so, and when his lips part against Grayson’s own it’s easy to follow suit.

He’s never kissed anyone like this, slow and deep, sensation that could swallow him whole. Alastair doesn’t begrudge him his lack of coordination, in those instances their foreheads bump or Grayson has to pull back for air. In fact, he only encourages him, drawing him in deeper with every kiss, the hand at his hip curling and uncurling, holding him steady. Grayson’s thankful for it – the moment he feels a tongue brush along his own he very nearly jolts back into the wall. Alastair smiles against his mouth – such a strange sensation – before he flicks his tongue again, growing bolder with every passing second.

And then he’s pulling back –

… wait, what, _why_ –

– and Grayson nearly stumbles forward as he follows after him. Alastair doesn’t go far, kissing his way along his jaw and down his neck once more. Grayson can only stand there, trying to catch his breath.

“You have no idea,” Alastair murmurs, breaking away for a moment, “how infuriating it has been, feeling you watch me all this time.”

“Could have done something about it,” Grayson breathes. He has to fight to keep himself in place, instead of letting his head tilt back again like he wants.

Alastair’s hands are roaming down his chest and sides, the one at his hip tugging at his shirt before finally dipping under. Grayson nearly jolts again at the first brush of those fingers against his skin, stomach jumping beneath his touch.

“I nearly did.” Alastair pulls back again, levels him with dark and hungry eyes. “What a mistake it would have been, to deprive the world of such a ridiculous, infuriating man.”

Grayson frowns at that, opens his mouth to defend himself. He doesn’t get a word out before Alastair is ducking in, quicker than he can blink, a cheeky kiss claiming his mouth. His hands tug at Grayson’s shirt with purpose now, urging the material up. They have to break apart for him to get it over Grayson’s head, the sleeves nearly entangling both his arms; the moment he’s free of the shirt Alastair tosses it off to the side somewhere, and it’s lost to Grayson’s sight immediately.

There’s no chance for him to feel self-conscious about his naked state, no chance for him to register a chill of any sort as Alastair draws him away from the wall. There are few places they could be heading for, and only a moment later he feels the softness of the furs beneath his boots. Alastair eases them down and Grayson goes willingly, his heart beating so fast he can hardly think through it. He’s reaching for his boots before Alastair can lean in again, yanking them off eagerly. He fumbles for his trousers next –

Alastair’s hands join his own, dragging the material down his thighs. It’s only then he realises just how close Alastair is to his cock, and just how hard he is – how hard they _both_ are, Alastair’s length straining against his trousers and Grayson’s throbbing between his legs. Alastair looks him over with those heated eyes, lingering on the thin cloth of his underclothes, all that stands between his prick and the open air.

Whether it’s his position – on his back, with only his elbows holding him up – or the way that Alastair is watching him … whatever the reason, Grayson feels a tendril of uncertainty curl through his insides. He buries it as best he can, focuses on Alastair instead. The man is simply far too clothed, though that’s easy enough to remedy, and he reaches for Alastair’s waist –

Alastair catches him by the wrist instead, pulling him in for a deep, hungry kiss. Even with the awkward angle, he still has one hand free; his fingers find Alastair’s hip and the man hums, an amused, appreciative sound. Before Grayson can actually get anywhere, with _anything_ , Alastair is easing back. Whatever protests he could’ve made die in his throat as Alastair brings his hand up to his mouth, pressing a kiss over his thundering pulse. Slowly, slowly, he drags his lips across Grayson’s skin, pausing there on the outside of his hand –

Over the line he’d cut there on the altar.

“Not having second thoughts?” he asks, words spoken against Grayson’s skin.

“… what?”

Alastair looks at him from under his lashes. Deliberately he curls his fingers around Grayson’s wrist, just enough that he can feel his heartbeat jump against his grip.

Grayson drops his head back with a groan. “Fuck, come on –”

“You need to say it, Gray,” and Alastair hasn’t looked away from him, barely seems to blink – “I need to hear this is what you want.”

Grayson’s breath rattles all the way out of him. His throat’s gone dry; he swallows hard.

“I want this. I want this – I want you.”

Like a weight has been lifted from him in that moment, Alastair finally closes his eyes. He lets out a deep exhale, presses another kiss to the scar.

When he looks again his eyes are almost entirely black.

“Lie back.”

Grayson hesitates, but Alastair has already let go of his hand. He seems intent on looking for something nearby only he would know, so Grayson does as he’s been asked, heart rabbiting away as he lays back.

There’s a flush building beneath his skin, some of that self-consciousness he’d escaped before now mixing with his arousal. He feels all too conspicuous, lying here like this, so much more exposed than Alastair. It does nothing to quell his desire – god, he’s never been so hard in all his life, and Alastair’s _so close_ but he still hasn’t touched him, how can that be? Grayson’s hand is moving before he can think twice, skimming low over his stomach, towards his waistband –

Alastair beats him there.

He moves so quickly, Grayson thinks, nearly breathless with it. Alastair looks hungry, leaning over him; his hands are warm and sure as he drags the garment down his thighs, Grayson raising himself up to help things along. He doesn’t know where they end up, doesn’t really care – not while Alastair’s fingers are circling round his thighs, spreading them apart. Grayson lets himself be moved, Alastair shifting his legs up until his feet are planted on the furs. He presses a kiss against Grayson’s knee, and then he’s moving down, mouth trailing wet and hot along his skin, closer and closer and closer –

And Grayson gets less than a handful of seconds to register the puff of breath against sensitive skin before Alastair’s lips wrap around his cock.

Grayson moans, his head thumping back against the furs. He’s never been so thankful for the softness of their bedding, but even that thought is a fleeting thing, everything pale in comparison to sheer _sensation_. Alastair’s mouth is an impossible heat, one that only seems to grow as his head bobs up and down, up and down, there at the edge of Grayson’s vision –

He wants to look, wants to see Alastair there between his thighs, watch the slide of his flesh disappear between those wet, red lips, but he thinks he might just lose himself if he does.

Alastair pulls himself up and almost entirely off, sucking intently at the head of his cock before working his way down again. His tongue drags along the underside with every pass, deliberate motions, and Grayson can’t help himself, slaps a hand over his mouth to keep the sounds he’s making from escaping. His other hand he clenches in the furs, so tightly his fist aches.

And then there’s a touch along his fingers, easing that grip loose. Grayson tilts his head, just a little – just enough to see Alastair’s eyes, and the intent therein as he draws Grayson’s hand down and presses it to the back of his head. It takes a moment for his mind to catch up, and then Grayson’s sliding his fingers through Alastair’s hair. He tries to keep his grasp light at first but it’s so, so easy to let his fingers sink deeper into Alastair’s hair, curling and tugging at the strands with every dip of Alastair’s head.

He does something with his tongue then that makes Grayson moan, his fingers pulling harder than he means to. But Alastair only hums in response, a pleased sound that Grayson feels all the way through him, _fuck_ –

He’s close, he can feel it, his release coiling low in his belly. It’s getting harder not to snap his hips up into Alastair’s clever mouth, tighten his fingers in his hair and urge him down further, but by some sheer act of will he holds himself in check. This is more than he’s ever had, _better_ than he’s ever had, and he lets it carry him away. Let Alastair set the pace, moving with that unexpected confidence of his.

Only – Alastair is moving in utterly the wrong direction, working his way up Grayson’s cock until his mouth has eased off it entirely. Grayson mourns the loss immediately, a noise of mixed frustration and disbelief escaping him. The grip he’d kept on Alastair’s hair is lost as he pushes himself up on his elbows, already starting to frown.

But Alastair is still there, poised between his thighs, spit-slick mouth obvious even in the low light, and he’s watching him as intently as ever. Without ever looking away he slowly trails his fingers down between Grayson’s legs, laying the lightest of touches against his hole.

Grayson’s breath stutters. He goes very, very still very quickly, even as his heart and thoughts alike are racing.

“Easy,” Alastair murmurs. He settles a gentling hand low over Grayson’s stomach, keeps the warm, steady weight of it there until some of his tension fades. “Has no one touched you here before?”

Grayson shakes his head, swallows hard. “No.”

Alastair watches him for a long, quiet moment. He draws his hand back then, reaching a little off to the side – there’s something there, a little glass bottle Grayson only just now notices. Is this what Alastair had been searching for earlier?

As he looks on, Alastair uncorks the bottle, trickling the contents over the fingers of his opposite hand. The touch, when it returns, isn’t as surprising; the wetness of his fingers feels strange, but Grayson breathes through it. Alastair gently kisses the inside of his thigh.

“Easy,” he murmurs again. Then he presses one finger inside.

It’s a deep, slow burn, that stretch, one that seems to go on forever. Alastair works him open gradually, and even with that oil slicking his fingers Grayson can feel every bit of him. It’s all he can do to keep himself loose-limbed and easy, breathing through the ache – especially as Alastair adds another finger.

“Alright?”

“Fuck,” Grayson breathes. His voice sounds shaky to his own ears.

Alastair crooks his fingers and Grayson’s mouth drops open, a gasp caught in his throat.

“You have no idea how you look right now,” Alastair says, voice low and full of heat. “If you could see yourself –”

He has to stop himself from moaning then, even as he’s sure Alastair would encourage such a noise. Likely he’d encourage too the urge Grayson feels to grind down against those fingers, opening himself up further; the sensation is still foreign, but with every twitch and curl it’s a little less uncomfortable. The pace is slow, though by no means dull – there’s a purposefulness to Alastair’s every move, a certainty that promises there’s only one place this is all heading, and they’ll get there soon enough. He takes such care with him it’s almost overwhelming, something in Grayson’s chest aching at the thought. It’s too much and not enough all at once, and he wants –

God, he wants –

“Just – come on,” he grits out, squirming down. There’s a flush spreading across his face, one that only grows as their eyes meet.

Alastair wets his lips. “You’re certain? I don’t want …”

He trails off. The words he’s left unsaid are plain enough to Grayson, between how he’s looking at him and the careful way he’s touched him up until now. It makes that ache in his chest grow to something fierce.

Such gentleness is something he would never have expected. And yet, welcome though it is …

“Alastair,” he urges, “please –”

Alastair lets out a shaky breath. He takes a moment, seemingly to compose himself – but only a moment. Then he’s drawing his fingers back, shoving his trousers down his thighs and reaching again for that little bottle nearby. Grayson watches as he pours more out over his palm, fisting his cock to cover as much of it as possible.

He could look at Alastair like this all day, he thinks, the faint sheen of sweat over his skin and his hair falling around his face, damp and slightly darkened at the temples. His mouth is slightly open, and there’s an intensity to his expression as he strokes himself that Grayson can’t tear his eyes from.

He doesn’t quite get the chance to admire the sight the way he might like, as Alastair bends Grayson's legs closer to his chest, positioning himself at his entrance.

And Grayson’s murmuring without even realising it, “come on, come on, come _on_ –”

Slowly, Alastair pushes into him.

If he thought the sensation before was almost more than he could bear, it’s nothing compared to the stretch he feels as Alastair slides into him. All the care he’d taken and it still barely seems enough; there’s _so much_ of him, a slow thrust that feels like it’ll never end. Alastair’s fingers are clutching to his hips, so tightly he thinks they’ll bruise. Such a thing hardly registers, compared to all the rest.

And just when he’s starting to think he’ll be caught like this forever, Alastair stops.

Grayson lets out a shuddering breath. Alastair’s hips are flush against him – there’s nowhere else for him to move, and Grayson is so full it’s like nothing he’s ever known. Alastair is holding himself in place, a look that’s almost dazed on his face. He’s shaking, Grayson realises, tiny, fine trembles wracking his body.

He hadn’t expected to be surprised, after the gentleness Alastair displayed. And yet …

“Are you –”

“Fine,” Grayson gets out, “fine, just – fuck, Alastair, _move_ –”

Alastair huffs out a laugh. “Mouthy one, aren’t you.”

He draws his hips back, agonisingly slow. Before Grayson can growl at him to _just hurry up already_ he’s snapping them forward, driving into him.

Grayson bites back a groan, his head thudding back against the furs. It’s like all the air’s been punched out of him; he has the briefest thought that Alastair would be proud of eliciting such a reaction, but the man is rightly far more concerned with the movement of his hips. He doesn’t find his rhythm right away, a few haltering thrusts that don’t reach quite as deep as Grayson wants, _needs_. But Alastair is nothing if not determined, and it doesn’t take him long to settle into something satisfying.

And Grayson can only move with him, inexperienced but eager, arching into every thrust he can. His cock is trapped between them, leaking onto his stomach. It’d be so easy to reach for it, but Grayson finds his hands are clutched to Alastair’s shoulders, holding him tightly, pulling him in closer with every snap of his hips. He doesn’t even remember reaching for him.

Whether it’s that grip or the way Alastair shifts himself, his next thrust hits a place inside that makes Grayson see stars.

He can’t hold back his moan, clenching around Alastair, fingers biting into his skin. Alastair’s pace stutters for a moment, staring at him in equal disbelief. But then a challenge lights his eyes, and he thrusts into him again. And again, and again, every move he makes coming faster and harder than the last, that precious composure of his fading by the second.

The banked heat of Grayson’s release is building again, low in his belly. There isn’t anything that’s going to keep him from it this time. He digs his fingers in harder, sure he’s leaving marks as he draws Alastair in as deep as he can, head thrown back, neck exposed –

And it’s like Alastair is everywhere in that moment, pressing into him, _against_ him, pushing him into the furs; his mouth finds Grayson’s throat, sucking a mark along his jawline. He drags his teeth across his skin as he pulls back, hunger in his eyes.

All that sensation in that moment is just too much, and Grayson comes between them with a shout.

He’s aware, on some distant level, of the way that Alastair is still grinding into him, virtually all rhythm lost, given over to his desire. Grayson would help him along, only he doesn’t know exactly when he released his hold on the other man’s arms. Moving in general feels somewhat beyond him at the moment. The best he can muster up are murmured words of encouragement, little nonsense things he can’t recall even seconds after he’s said them.

If Alastair hears them, he doesn’t know. His thrusts grow more erratic until finally they falter entirely, Alastair going still above him, a bitten back moan the only sound that escapes him.

It’s some miracle he doesn’t collapse upon Grayson then, such is the weariness that seems to overtake him. He pulls out with care and Grayson winces, mourning the loss of him immediately. It’s a strange sort of emptiness, one he’s never known. He lies there, coming back to himself; as he does Alastair slumps down beside him, a line of heat along his side. He says nothing as he takes Grayson’s arm and pulls him closer, until Grayson’s half-sprawled over him. Grayson doesn’t even get the chance to warn about the mess now spread between them as Alastair drags a heap of furs over them both, looping one arm around him easily.

After everything that’s happened, drifting off to sleep there with him feels like the most natural thing in the world.

* * *

It’s still dark when Grayson wakes, the low fire in the hearth having long since burned past embers. He mustn’t have slept too long; that, or the night is truly a dark one, for no light comes through from outside. Even where the wood has broken, he can barely make out a difference between inside and out.

Alastair has constructed this place well. No doubt when the time comes for him to rebuild, it’ll reach the same level of craftsmanship.

The mystery of what pulled him out of sleep is solved fairly quickly. At some point during their rest he must have leaned into the embrace – his head is planted firmly on Alastair’s chest, his hair ruffled with every one of the man’s exhales.

Alastair’s hand is tracing up and down his side, the lightest drag of his fingertips.

He’s almost certain Alastair knows that he’s awake. Even so, he lies there still and quiet for a little while before he decides to speak.

“Grayson.”

Alastair’s hand doesn’t falter. “Hmm?”

“My name,” he says, quietly. “It’s Grayson.”

Now the gentle motions of his fingers stop.

“I thought it only fair I give you mine, after knowing yours,” he continues.

His voice sounds impossibly loud in the quiet that surrounds them. He doesn’t move, and neither does Alastair, and Grayson tries to ignore the creeping sense of worry he feels growing the longer that quiet lasts. Instead, he listens to the thud of Alastair’s heart, steady and sure.

“Fool of a man,” Alastair murmurs, and presses a kiss to his hair.

Grayson buries his smile in Alastair’s chest, shuts his eyes, and waits for sleep to take him once more.

**Author's Note:**

> Bonjour, mon ami à l'air sévère - Hello, my stern looking friend
> 
> Ne te moque pas de lui - Don't make fun of him
> 
> Je ne voulais pas offenser - I didn't mean to offend
> 
> Il est temps pour nos leçons, monsieur, n'est-ce pas - It's time for our lessons, sir, isn't it
> 
> Aller à l'intérieur. Je te rejoins sous peu - Go inside. I will join you shortly
> 
> Cet homme est extrêmement obstiné - This man is extremely stubborn
> 
> C'était une vaillante tentative, monsieur - It was a valiant attempt, sir 
> 
> The tutorial I used for the hover translations is [here](https://ozhawkauthor.tumblr.com/post/137849074122/hover-notes-or-floating-boxesin-ao3), if you'd like to learn how to do it for your own work.


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